THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Peter  Scott 


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THE   NOVELS    AND    ROMANCES 

OF 

EDWARD    BULWER   LYTTON 

(LORD    LYTTON) 


Jpantip  HiBrrarp  €tiition 


THE   DISOWNED 


'.'ll 


'  A  captive  in  Augusta's  towers, 
To  beauty  and  her  train." 


The  Disowned. 


^^^^ffi 

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THE  NOVELL 

V  1  Jfctf^C^ 

AND  •  ROMANCES 

sf 

EDWARD  •  BUIWER 
LYTTON 

(LORD  LYTTON) 

THE    DISOWNED 

> 

'mmtwMm 

4  V>  J^N 

BO-STON 
LITTLE  •  BROWN 
d/7ar    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1S93,  1894,  1S97, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Compant. 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridgk,  U.S.A. 


18n 


THE  DISOWNED. 

PAET  FIRST. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


In  this  edition  of  a  work  composed  in  early  youth,  ] 
have  not  attempted  to  remove  those  faults  of  construc- 
tion which  may  be  sufficiently  apparent  in  the  plot; 
but  which  could  not  indeed  be  thoroughly  rectified  with- 
out re-writing  the  whole  work.  I  can  only  hope  that 
with  the  defects  of  inexperience  may  be  found  some  ol 
the  merits  of  frank  and  artless  enthusiasm,  I  have, 
however,  lightened  the  narrative  of  certain  episodical 
and  irrelevant  passages,  and  relieved  the  general  style 
of  some  boyish  extravagances  of  diction.  At  the  timo 
this  work  was  written  I  was  deeply  engaged  in  the  studji 
of  metaphysics  and  ethics,  —  and  out  of  that  study  gre\V 
the  character  of  Algernon  Mordaunt.  He  is  represented 
as  a  type  of  the  heroism  of  Christian  philosophy,  —  a 
imion  of  love  and  knowledge  placed  in  the  midst  of 
sorrow,  and  laboring  on  through  the  pilgrimage  of 
life,  strong  in  the  fortitude  that  comes  from  belief  in 
heaven. 

E.  B.  L. 

Knebworxh,  May  1852. 


2227567 


THE    DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I  '11  tell  you  a  story,  if  you  please  to  attend. 

Limbo,  hy  G.  Knight. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  soft,  warm  day  in  the  IMay  of 
17 — • .  The  sun  had  already  set,  and  the  twilight  was 
gathering  slowly  over  the  large,  still  masses  of  wood 
which  lay  on  either  side  of  one  of  those  green  lanes  so 
peculiar  to  England.  Here  and  there  the  outline  of 
the  trees  irregularly  shrank  back  from  the  road,  leav- 
ing broad  patches  of  waste  land  covered  with  fern, 
and  the  yellow  blossoms  of  the  dwarf  furze,  and  at 
more  distant  intervals,  thick  clusters  of  rushes,  from 
which  came  the  small  hum  of  gnats, —  those  "evening 
revellers, "  —  alternately  rising  and  sinking  in  the  cus- 
tomary manner  of  their  unknown  sports,  till,  as  the 
shadows  grew  darker  and  darker,  their  thin  and  airy 
shapes  were  no  longer  distinguishable,  and  no  solitary 
token  of  life  or  motion  broke  the  voiceless  monotony  of 
the  surrounding  woods. 

Tlie  first  sound  which  invaded  the  silence  came  from 
the  light,  quick  footsteps  of  a  person  whose  youth  be- 
trayed itself  in  its  elastic  and  unmeasured  tread,  and 
in  the  gay,  free  carol  which  broke  out  by  fits  and  starts 
upon  the  gentle  stillness  of  the  evening. 

VOL.  I. 1 


2  THE   DISOWNED. 

There  was  something  rather  indicative  of  poetical  taste 
than  musical  science  in  the  selection  of  this  vesper  hymn, 
which  always  commenced  with, — 

'T  is  merry,  't  is  merry,  in  good,  green  wood, 

and  never  proceeded  a  syllable  farther  than  the  end  of 
the  second  line, — 

When  birds  are  about  and  singing  ; 

from  the  last  word  of  which,  after  a  brief  pause,  it  in- 
variably started  forth  into  joyous  "  iteration. " 

Presently  a  heavier  yet  still  more  rapid  step  than  that 
of  the  youth  was  heard  behind;  and,  as  it  overtook 
the  latter,  a  loud,  clear,  gooddiumored  voice  gave  the 
salutation  of  the  evening.  The  tone  in  whicli  this 
courtesy  was  returned  was  frank,  distinct,  and  peculiarly 
harmonious. 

"  Good-evening,  my  friend.     How  far  is  it  to  W ? 

I  hope  I  am  not  out  of  the  direct  road  1  " 

"  To  W ,   sir  1  "  said  the  man,  touching  his  hat, 

iS  he  perceived,  in  spite  of  the  dusk,  something  in  the 
air  and  voice  of  his  new  acquaintance  which  called  for  a 
greater  degree  of  respect  than  he  was  at  first  disposed  to 

accord    to    a    pedestrian    traveller, —  "to    W ,    sir? 

Why,  you  will  not  surely  go  there  to-night?  It  is  more 
than  eight  miles  distant,  and  the  roads  none  of  the 
best." 

"  Xow,  a  curse  on  all  rogues !  "  quoth  the  youth,  with 
a  serious  sort  of  vivacity.  "  Why,  the  miller,  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  assured  me  I  should  be  at  my  journey's 
end  in  less  than  an  hour." 

"He  may  have  said  right,  sir,"  returned  the  man; 
"  yet  you  will  not  reach  W in  twice  that  time. " 

"  How  do  you  mean  1  "  said  the  younger  stranger. 


THE   DISOWNED.  S 

"  Wliy,  that  you  may  for  once  force  a  miller  to  speak 
truth  in  spite  of  himself,  and  make  a  public-house,  about 
three  miles  hence,  the  end  of  your  day's  journey." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  hint, "  said  the  youth.  "  Does 
the  house  you  speak  of  lie  on  the  roadside  ? " 

"  No,  sir ;  the  lane  branches  off  about  two  miles  hence, 
and  you  must  then  turn  to  the  right;  but  till  then  our 
way  is  the  same,  and  if  you  would  not  prefer  your  own 
company  to  mine ,  we  can  trudge  on  together. " 

"With  all  my  heart,"  rejoined  the  younger  stranger; 
**and  not  the  less  willingly  from  the  brisk  pace  you 
walk.  I  thought  I  had  few  equals  in  pedestrianism ; 
but  it  should  not  be  for  a  small  wager  that  I  would  un- 
dertake to  keep  up  with  you. " 

"  Perhaps,  sir, "  said  the  man,  laughing,  "  I  have  had 
in  the  course  of  my  life  a  better  usage  and  a  longer  ex- 
perience of  my  heels  than  you  have. " 

Somewhat  startled  by  a  speech  of  so  equivocal  a  mean- 
ing, the  youth  for  the  first  time  turned  round  to  ex- 
amine, as  well  as  the  increasing  darkness  would  permit, 
the  size  and  appearance  of  his  companion.  He  was  not 
perhaps  too  well  satisfied  with  his  survey.  His  fellow- 
pedestrian  was  about  six  feet  high,  and  of  a  corres- 
pondent girth  of  limb  and  frame,  which  would  have 
made  him  fearful  odds  in  any  encounter  where  bodily 
strength  was  the  best  means  of  conquest.  Notwith- 
standing the  mildness  of  the  weather,  he  was  closely 
buttoned  in  a  rough  greatcoat,  which  was  well  calcu- 
lated to  give  all  due  effect  to  the  athletic  proportions  of 
the  wearer. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments. 

"  This  is  but  a  wild,  savage  sort  of  scene  for  England, 
sir,  in  this  day  of  new-fashioned  ploughs  and  farming 
improvements, "  said  the  tall  stranger,   looking  round  at 


4  THE   DISOWNED. 

the  ragged  wastes  and  grim  woods  which  lay  steeped  in 
the   shade  beside  and  before  them, 

"  True, "  answered  the  youth ;  "  and,  in  a  few  years, 
agricultural  innovation  will  scarcely  leave,  even  in  these 
wastes,  a  single  furze-blossom  for  the  bee,  or  a  tuft  of 
greensward  for  the  grasshopper;  but,  however  unpleas- 
ant the  change  may  be  for  us  foot-travellers,  we  must 
not  repine  at  what  they  tell  us  is  so  sure  a  witness  of 
the  prosperity  of  the  country." 

"  They  tell  us!  who  tell  us?  "  exclaimed  the  stranger, 
with  great  vivacity.  "  Is  it  the  puny  and  spiritless  ar- 
tisan, or  the  debased  and  crippled  slave  of  the  counter 
and  the  till,  or  the  sallow  speculator  on  morals,  who 
would  mete  us  out  our  liberty,  our  happiness,  our  very 
feelings,  by  the  yard  and  inch  and  fraction?  No,  no; 
let  the7n  follow  what  the  books  and  precepts  of  their 
own  wisdom  teach  them ;  let  them  cultivate  more  highly 
the  lands  they  have  already  parcelled  out  by  dikes  and 
fences,  and  leave,  though  at  scanty  intervals,  some  green 
patches  of  unpolluted  land  for  the  poor  man's  beast  and 
the  free  man's  foot. " 

"  You  are  an  enthusiast  on  this  subject, "  said  the 
younger  traveller,  not  a  little  surprised  at  the  tone  and 
words  of  the  last  speech ;  "  and  if  I  were  not  just  about 
to  commence  the  world  with  a  firm  persuasion  that  en- 
thusiasm on  any  matter  is  a  great  obstacle  to  success,  I 
could  be  as  warm,  though  not  so  eloquent  as  yourself. " 

"  Ah,  sir, "  said  the  stranger,  sinking  into  a  more 
natural  and  careless  tone,  "  I  have  a  better  right  than 
I  imagine  you  can  claim  to  repine  or  even  to  inveigh 
against  the  boundaries  which  are  day  by  day,  and  hour 
by  hour,  encroaching  upon  what  I  have  learned  to  look 
upon  as  my  own  territory.  You  were,  just  before  I 
joined  you,  singing  an  old  song,     I  honor  you  for  your 


THE   DISOWNED.  5 

taste;  and,  no  offence,  sir,  but  a  sort  of  fellowship  in 
feeling  made  me  take  the  liberty  to  accost  you.  I  am 
no  very  great  scholar  in  other  thmgs,  but  I  owe  my 
present  circumstances  of  life  solely  to  my  fondness  for 
those  old  songs  and  quaint  madrigals.  And  I  believe  no 
person  can  better  apply  to  himself  Will  Shakespeare's 
invitation :  — 

'  Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather.'" 

Relieved  from  his  former  fear,  but  with  increased 
curiosity  at  this  quotation,  which  was  half  said,  half 
sung,  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  evince  a  hearty  relish 
for  the  sense  of  the  words,  the  youth  replied, — 

"  Truly,  I  did  not  expect  to  meet  among  the  trav- 
ellers of  this  wild  country  with  so  well-stored  a  mem- 
ory. And,  indeed,  I  should  have  imagined  that  the 
only  persons  to  whom  your  verses  could  exactly  have 
applied  were  those  honorable  vagrants  from  the  Nile, 
whom  in  vulgar  language  we  term  gypsies. " 

"  Precisely  so,  sir, "  answered  the  tall  stranger,  indif- 
ferently ;  "  precisely  so.  It  is  to  that  ancient  body  that 
I  belong." 

"  The  devil  you  do !  "  quoth  the  youth,  in  unsophis- 
ticated surprise ;  "  the  progress  of  education  is  indeed 
astonishing !  " 

"  Why, "  answered  the  stranger,  laughing,  "  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  sir,  I  am  a  gypsy  by   inclination,  not  birth. 


6  THE    DISOWNED. 

Ths  ilhistrioiTS  Bamfylde  Moore  Carew  is  not  the  only 
example  of  one  of  gentle  blood  and  honorable  education 
■whom  the  fleshpots  of  Egypt  have  seduced." 

"  I  congratulate  myself, "  quoth  the  youth,  in  a  tone 
that  might  have  been  in  jest,  "  upon  becoming  ac- 
quainted with  a  character  at  once  so  respectable  and  so 
novel;  and  to  return  your  quotation  in  the  way  of  a 
compliment,  I  cry  out  with  the  most  fashionable  author 
of  Elizabeth's  days,  — 

*  Oh  for  a  bowl  of  fat  Canary, 
Rich  Palermo,  —  sparkling  sherry.' 

in  order  to  drink  to  our  better  acquaintance. " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  —  thank  you, "  cried  the  strange 
gypsy,  seemingly  delighted  with  the  spirit  with  which 
his  young  acquaintance  appeared  to  enter  into  his 
character,  and  his  quotation  from  a  class  of  authors  at 
that  time  much  less  known  and  appreciated  than  at 
present ;  "  and  if  you  have  seen  already  enough  of  the 
world  to  take  up  with  ale  when  neither  Canary, 
Palermo,  nor  sherry  are  forthcoming,  I  will  promise, 
at  least,  to  pledge  you  in  large  draughts  of  that  homely 
beverage.  What  say  you  to  passing  a  night  Avith  us? 
Our  tents  are  yet  more  at  hand  than  the  public-house  of 
which  I  spoke  to  you." 

The  young  man  hesitated  a  moment,  then  replied,  — 
"  I  will  answer  you  frankly,  my  friend,  even  though  I 
may  find  cause  to  repent  my  confidence.  I  have  a  feAv 
guineas  about  me,  which,  though  not  a  large  sum,  are 
viy  all.  !Now,  however  ancient  and  honorable  your 
fraternity  may  be,  they  labor  under  a  sad  confusion,  I 
lear,  in  their  ideas  of  meum  and  tunvi." 

"  Faith,  sir,  I  believe  you  are  right ;  and  were  you 
some  years  older,  I  think  you  would  not  have  favored  me 


THE   DIS0\V2xED.  7 

"vvitli  the  same  disclosure  you  have  done  now,  —  but  you 
may  be  quite  easy  on  that  score.  If  you  were  made  of 
gold,  the  rascals  would  not  filch  off  the  corner  of  your 
garment  as  long  as  you  were  under  my  protection. 
Does  this  assurance  satisfy  you  1  " 

"  Perfectly, "  said  the  youth :  "  and  now,  how  far  are 
we  from  your  encampment?  I  assure  you  I  am  all 
f-.agerness  to  be  among  a  set  of  which  I  have  witnessed 
tach  a  specimen." 

"  ISTay,  nay, "  returned  the  gypsy,  "  you  must  not 
judge  of  all  my  brethren  by  me;  I  confess  that  tbey 
are  but  a  rough  tribe.  However,  I  love  them  dearly; 
and  am  only  the  more  inclined  to  think  them  honest  to 
each  other,  because  they  are  rogues  to  all  the  rest  of  the 
world." 

By  this  time  our  travellers  had  advanced  nearly  two 
miles  since  they  had  commenced  companionship;  and, 
at  a  turn  in  the  lane,  about  three  hundred  yards  further 
on,  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  distant  fire,  burning 
brightly  through  the  dim  trees.  They  quickened  their 
■^ace,  and,  striking  a  little  out  of  their  path  into  a  com- 
mon, soon  approached  two  tents,  the  Arab  homes  of  the 
vagrant  and  singular  people  with  whom  the  gypsy 
Jaimed  brotherhood  and  alliance. 


THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Here  we  securely  live  and  eat 

The  cream  of  meat ; 

And  keep  eternal  fires 

By  which  we  sit  and  do  divine. 

Heerick.  —  Ode  to  Sir  Clipsehy  Crew. 

Around  a  fire  which  blazed  and  crackled  beneath  the 
large  seething-pot  that  seemed  an  emblem  of  the  mys- 
tery and  a  promise  of  the  good  cheer  which  are  the 
supposed  characteristics  of  the  gypsy  race,  were  grouped 
seven  or  eight  persons,  upon  whose  swarthy  and  strong 
countenances  the  irregular  and  fitful  flame  cast  a  pic- 
turesque and  not  unbecoming  glow.  All  of  these,  with 
the  exception  of  an  old  crone  who  was  tending  the  pot, 
and  a  little  boy  who  was  feeding  the  fire  with  sundry 
fragments  of  stolen  wood,  started  to  their  feet  upon  the 
entrance  of  the  stranger, 

"  What  ho,  my  bob  cuffins, "  cried  the  gypsy  guide ; 
"  I  have  brought  you  a  gentry  cove,  to  whom  you  will 
show  all  proper  respect;  and  hark  ye,  my  maunders, 
if  ye  dare  beg,  borrow,  or  steal  a  single  croaker,  ay,  but 
a  bawbee  of  him,  I  '11  —  but  ye  know  me."  The  gypsy 
stopped  abruptly,  and  turned  an  eye,  in  which  menace 
vainly  struggled  with  good-huinor,  upon  each  of  his 
brethren,  as  they  submissively  bowed  to  him  and  his 
protege,  and  poured  forth  a  profusion  of  promises,  to 
which  their  admouitor  did  not  even  condescend  to  listen. 
He  threw  oft'  his  greatcoat,  doubled  it  down  by  tlie  best 
place  near  the  fire,  and  made  the  youth  forthwith  possess 


THE   DISO^YNED,  9 

himself  of  the  seat  it  afforded.  He  then  lifted  the  cover 
of  the  mysterious  caldron.  "  Well,  ]\Iort, "  cried  he  to 
the  old  woman,  as  he  bent  wistfully  down,  "  what  have 
we  here  ? " 

"  Two  ducks,  three  chickens,  and  a  rabbit,  with  some 
potatoes, "  growled  the  old  hag,  who  claimed  the  usual 
privilege  of  her  culinary  office  to  be  as  ill-tempered  as 
she  pleased. 

"  Good !  "  said  the  gypsy ;  "  and  now,  IMim,  my  cull, 
go  to  the  other  tent,  and  ask  its  inhabitants,  in  my  name, 
to  come  here  and  svip.  Bid  them  bring  their  caldron  to 
eke  out  ours,  —  I  '11  find  the  lush. " 

With  these  words  (which  Mini,  a  short,  swartliy 
member  of  the  gang,  with  a  countenance  too  astute  to 
be  pleasing,  instantly  started  forth  to  obey)  the  gypsy 
stretched  himself  at  full  length  by  the  youth's  side, 
and  began  reminding  him,  with  some  jocularity  and  at 
some  length,  of  his  promise  to  drink  to  their  better 
acquaintance. 

Something  there  was  in  the  scene,  the  fire,  the  cal- 
dron, the  intent  figure  and  withered  countenance  of 
the  old  woman,  the  grouping  of  the  other  forms,  the 
rude  but  not  unpicturesque  tent,  the  dark,  still  woods 
on  either  side,  with  the  deep  and  cloudless  skies  above, 
as  the  stars  broke  forth  one  by  one  upon  the  silent  air, 
which  (to  use  the  orthodox  phrase  of  the  novelist) 
would  not  have  been  wholly  unworthy  the  bold  pencil 
of  Salvator  himself. 

The  youth  eyed,  with  that  involuntary  respect  which 
personal  advantages  always  command,  the  large  yet  sym- 
metrical proportions  of  his  wild  companion;  nor  was  the 
face  which  belonged  to  that  frame  much  less  deserving 
of  attention.  Though  not  handsome ,  it  was  both  shrewd 
and  prepossessing  in  its  expression:    the   forehead  was 


10  THE   DISOWNED. 

prominent;  the  brows  overhung  the  eyes,  which  were 
large,  dark,  and,  unlike  those  of  the  trilje  in  general, 
rather  calm  tlian  brilliant;  the  complexion,  though  sun- 
burnt, was  not  swartliy;  and  the  face  was  carefully  and 
cleanly  shaved,  so  as  to  give  all  due  advantage  of  con- 
trast to  the  brown,  luxuriant  locks  which  fell,  ratlier 
in  flakes  than  curls,  on  either  side  of  the  healthful  and 
manly  cheeks.  In  age  he  was  about  thirty-five,  and 
though  his  air  and  mien  were  assuredly  not  lofty,  nor 
aristocratic,  yet  they  were  strikingly  above  the  bearing  of 
his  vagabond  companions;  those  companions  were  in  all 
respects  of  the  ordinary  race  of  gypsies,  —  the  cunning 
and  flashing  eye,  tlie  raven  locks,  the  dazzling  teetli,  tlie 
bronzed  color,  and  the  low,  slight,  active  form,  were  as 
strongly  their  distinguishing  characteristics  as  the  tokens 
of  all  their  tribe. 

But  to  these  the  appearance  of  the  youth  presented  a 
striking  and  beautiful  contrast. 

He  had  only  just  passed  the  stage  of  boyhood ;  perhaps 
he  might  have  seen  eighteen  summers,  — probably  not 
so  many.  He  had,  in  imitation  of  his  companion,  and 
perhaps  from  mistaken  courtesy  to  his  new  society,  doiTed 
his  hat;  and  the  attitude  which  he  had  chosen  fully  de- 
veloped the  noble  and  intellectual  turn  of  his  head  and 
throat.  His  hair,  as  yet  preserved  from  the  disfiguring 
fashions  of  the  day,  was  of  a  deep  auburn,  whicli  was 
rapidly  becoming  of  a  more  chestnut  hue,  and  curled  in 
short  close  curls  from  the  nape  of  the  neck  to  the  com- 
mencement of  a  forehead  singularly  white  and  high.  His 
brows,  finely  and  lightly  pencilled,  and  his  long  lashes 
of  the  darkest  dye,  gave  a  deeper  and  perhaps  softer 
shade  than  they  otherwise  would  have  worn  to  eyes  quick 
and  observant  in  their  expression,  and  of  a  light  hazel  in 
their  color.     His  cheek  was  very  fair,  and  the  red  light 


THE   DISOWNED.  11 

of  the  fire  cast  an  artificial  tint  of  increased  glow  upon  a 
complexion  tliat  had  naturally  rather  bloom  than  color; 
while  a  dark  riding-frock  set  ofi"  in  their  full  beauty  the  fine 
outline  of  his  chest,  and  the  slender  symmetry  of  his  frame. 

But  it  was  neither  his  features  nor  his  form,  eminently 
handsome  as  they  were,  which  gave  the  prmcipal  charm 
to  the  young  stranger's  appearance,  —  it  was  the  strik- 
ingly bold,  buoyant,  frank,  and  almost  joyous  expression 
which  presided  over  all.  There  seemed  to  dwell  the 
first  glow  and  life  of  youth,  undhnmed  by  a  single  fear, 
and  unbaffled  in  a  single  hope.  There  were  tlie  elastic 
spring,  the  inexhaustible  wealth  of  energies,  which  defied, 
in  their  exultmg  pride,  the  heaviness  of  sorrow  and  the 
harassments  of  time.  It  was  a  face  that,  while  it  filled 
you  with  some  melancholy  foreboding  of  the  changes  and 
chances  which  must,  in  the  inevitable  course  of  fate, 
cloud  the  openness  of  the  unwrinkled  brow,  and  soberize 
the  fire  of  the  daring  and  restless  eye,  instilled  also  with- 
in you  some  assurance  of  triumph,  and  some  omen  of 
success,  —  a  vague  but  powerful  sympathy  with  the  adven- 
turous and  cheerful  spirit  which  appeared  literally  to 
speak  in  its  expression.  It  was  a  face  you  might  imagine 
in  one  born  under  a  prosperous  star ;  and  you  felt,  as  you 
gazed,  a  confidence  in  that  bright  countenance,  which, 
like  the  shield  of  the  British  prince,'  seemed  possessed 
with  a  spell  to  charm  into  impotence  the  evil  spirits  who 
menaced  its  possessor. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  his  friend  the  gypsy,  who  had  in  his 
turn  been  surveying  with  admiration  the  sinewy  and 
agile  frame  of  liis  young  guest,  —  "  well,  sir,  how  fares 
your  appetite  ?  Old  Dame  Bingo  will  be  mortally  offended 
if  you  do  not  do  ample  justice  to  her  good  cheer. " 

1  Prince  Arthur.  —  Pee  "  The  Faery  Queen." 


12  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  If  so, "  answered  our  traveller,  who,  young  as  he  was, 
had  learned  already  the  grand  secret  of  making,  in  every 
situation,  a  female  friend,  — "  if  so,  I  shall  be  likely  to 
otfend  her  still  more." 

"  And  how,  my  pretty  master  1  "  said  the  old  crone, 
with  an  iron  smile. 

"  Why,  I  shall  be  bold  enough  to  reconcile  matters 
with  a  kiss,  Mrs.   Bingo,"  answered  the  youth. 

"  Ha !  ha !  "  shouted  the  tall  gypsy ;  "  it  is  many  a 
long  day  since  my  old  Mort  slapped  a  gallant's  face  for 
such  an  affront.  But  here  come  our  messmates.  Good- 
evening,  my  mumpers,  —  make  your  bows  to  this  gentle- 
man who  has  come  to  bowse  with  us  to-night.  'Gad, 
we  '11  show  him  that  old  ale  's  none  the  worse  for  keeping 
company  with  the  moon's  darlings.  Come,  sit  down, 
sit  down.  Where  's  the  cloth,  ye  ill-mannered  loons, 
and  the  knives  and  platters?  Have  we  no  holiday  cus- 
toms for  strangers,  think  ye  ?  Mim,  my  cove,  oti'  to 
Tny  caravan, — bring  out  the  knives,  and  all  other  rattle- 
traps ;  and  hark  ye,  my  cuffin ,  this  small  key  opens  the 
inner  hole,  where  you  will  tind  two  barrels;  bring  one 
of  them.  I  '11  warrant  it  of  the  best,  for  the  brewer  him- 
self drank  some  of  the  same  sort  but  two  hours  before 
I  nimmed  them.  Come,  stump,  my  cull,  make  your- 
self wings.  Ho,  Dame  Bingo,  is  not  that  pot  of  thine 
seething  yet  ?  Ah,  my  young  gentleman,  you  commence 
betimes ,  so  much  the  better :  if  love  's  a  summer's  day, 
we  all  know  how  early  a  summer  morning  begins, "  added 
the  jovial  Egyptian,  in  a  lower  voice  (feeling  perhaps 
that  he  was  only  understood  by  himself),  as  he  gazed 
complacently  on  the  youth,  who,  with  that  happy  facility 
of  making  himself  everywhere  at  home,  so  uncommon  to 
his  countrymen,  was  already  paying  compliments  suited 
to  their  understanding  to  two  fair  daughters  of  the  tribe, 


THE  DISOWNED.  13 

•who  had  entered  with  the  new-comers.  Yet  had  he  too 
much  craft  or  delicacy,  call  it  which  you  will,  to  continue 
his  addresses  to  that  limit  where  ridicule  or  jealousy, 
from  the  male  part  of  the  assemblage,  might  commence ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  soon  turned  to  the  men,  and  ad- 
dressed them  with  a  familiarity  so  frank,  and  so  suited 
to  their  taste,  that  he  grew  no  less  rapidly  in  their  favor 
than  he  had  already  done  in  that  of  the  women ;  and,  when 
the  contents  of  the  two  caldrons  were  at  length  set  upon 
the  coarse  but  clean  cloth  which,  in  honor  of  his  arrival, 
covered  the  sod,  it  was  in  the  midst  of  a  loud  and  uni- 
versal peal  of  laughter,  which  some  broad  witticism  of 
the  yoimg  stranger  had  produced,  that  the  party  sat  down 
to  their  repast. 

Bright  were  the  eyes  and  sleek  the  tresses  of  the 
damsel  who  placed  herself  by  the  side  of  the  stranger, 
and  many  were  the  alluring  glances  and  insinuated 
compliments  which  replied  to  his  open  admiration  and 
profuse  flattery;  but  still  there  was  nothing  exclusive 
in  his  attentions.  Perhaps  an  ignorance  of  the  customs 
of  his  entertainers,  and  a  consequent  discreet  fear  of 
offending  them,  restrained  him;  or  perhaps  he  found 
ample  food  for  occupation  in  the  plentiful  dainties  which 
his  host  heaped  before  him. 

"Now  tell  me,"  said  the  gypsy  chief  (for  chief  he 
appeared  to  be),  "  if  we  lead  not  a  merrier  life  than  you 
dreamed  of;  or  would  you  have  us  change  our  coarse 
fare  and  our  simple  tents,  our  vigorous  limbs  and  free 
hearts,  for  the  meagre  board,  the  monotonous  chamber, 
the  diseased  frame,  and  the  toiling,  careful,  and  with- 
ered spirit  of  some  miserable  mechanic  1  " 

"  Change !  "  cried  the  youth,  with  an  earnestness 
which,  if  affected,  was  an  exquisite  counterfeit,  —  "by 
Heaven,  I  would  change  with  you  myself!" 


14  THE   DISOWNED. 

"Bravo,  my  fine  cove!"  cried  the  host,  and  all  the 
gang  echoed  their  sympathy  Avith  his  applause. 

The  youth  continued:  "Meat,  and  that  plentiful; 
ale,  and  that  strong;  women,  and  those  pretty  ones: 
what  can  man  desire  more  ?  " 

"Ay,"  cried  the  host,  "and  all  for  nothing,  —  no, 
not  even  a  tax:  who  else  in  this  kingdom  can  say  that? 
Come,   Mim,  push  round  the  ale." 

And  the  ale  ivas  pushed  round,  and  if  coarse  the 
merriment,  loud  at  least  was  the  laugh  that  rang  ever 
and  anon  from  the  old  tent;  and  though,  at  moments, 
something  in  the  guest's  eye  and  lip  might  have  seemed, 
to  a  very  shrewd  observer,  a  little  wandering  and  absent, 
yet,  upon  the  whole,  he  was  almost  as  much  at  ease  as 
the  rest,  and  if  he  was  not  quite  as  talkative,  he  Avas  to 
the  full  as  noisy. 

13y  degrees,  as  the  hov;r  grew  later  and  the  barrel  less 
heavy,  the  conversation  changed  into  one  universal  clat- 
ter. Some  told  their  feats  in  beggary;  others  their 
achievements  in  theft;  not  a  viand  they  had  fed  on  but 
had  its  appropriate  legend;  even  the  old  rabbit,  which 
had  been  as  tough  as  old  rabbit  can  well  be,  had  not 
been  honestly  taken  from  his  burrow ,  —  no  less  a  person 
than  Mim  himself  had  purloined  it  from  a  widow's 
footman,  who  was  carrying  it  to  an  old  maid  from  her 
nephew  the  Squire. 

"  Silence!  "  cried  the  host,  who  loved  talking  as  AAxdl 
as  the  rest,  and  who  for  the  last  ten  minutes  had  been 
vainly  endeavoring  to  obtain  attention, — "silence!  my 
maunders;  it 's  late,  and  wo  shall  have  the  queer  cuf- 
fins  ^  upon  us  if  we  keep  it  up  much  longer.  What,  ho, 
Mim!  are  you  still  gabbling  at  the  foot  of  the  table 
when  your  betters  are  talking?  As  sure  as  my  name  's 
1  Magistrates. 


THE   DISOWNED.  15 

King  Cole,  I  '11  choke  you  with  your  own  rahbit-skin  if 
you  don't  hush  your  prating  cheat;  nay,  never  look  so 
abashed,  —  if  you  ivill  make  a  noise,  come  forward  and 
sing  us  a  gypsy  song.  You  see,  my  young  sir  (turn- 
ing to  his  guest),  "  that  we  are  not  without  our  preten- 
sions to  the  fine  arts." 

At  this  order  INIim  started  forth,  and  taking  his 
station  at  the  right  hand  of  the  soi-disant  King  Cole, 
began  the  following  song,  the  chorus  of  which  was 
chanted  in  full  diapason  by  the  whole  group,  with  t]i^ 
additional  force  of  emphasis  that  knives,  feet,  and  fists 
could  bestow. 

THE  GYPSY'S  SONG. 

The  king  to  his  hall,  and  the  steed  to  his  stall, 

And  the  cit  to  his  bilking  board  ; 
But  we  are  not  bound  to  an  acre  of  ground, 

For  our  home  is  the  houseless  sward. 
We  sow  not,  nor  toil  ;  yet  we  glean  from  the  soil 

As  much  as  its  reapers  do ; 
And  wherever  we  rove,  we  feed  on  the  cove 

Who  gibes  at  the  mumping  crew. 

Chorus  —  So  the  king  to  his  hall,  etc. 

We  care  not  a  straw  for  the  limbs  of  the  law, 

Nora  fig  for  the  cuffin  queer; 
While  Hodge  and  his  neighbor  shall  lavish  and  labot. 

Our  tent  is  as  sure  of  its  cheer. 

Chorus —  So  the  king  to  his  hall,  etc. 

The  worst  have  an  awe  of  the  harman's  ^  claw, 

And  the  best  will  avoid  the  trap  ;  ^ 
But  our  wealth  is  as  free  of  the  bailiff's  see 

As  our  necks  of  the  hristing  crap.^ 

Chorus  —  So  the  king  to  his  hall,  etc. 

1  Constable.  *  Bailiff.  ^  Gallows. 


16  THE    DISOWNED. 

They  say  it  is  sweet  to  win  the  meat 
For  the  which  one  has  sorely  wrought  ; 

But  I  never  couhl  tind  that  we  lacked  the  mind 
For  the  food  that  has  cost  us  nought. 

Cliorus —  So  the  king  to  his  hall,  etc. 

And  when  we  have  ceased  from  our  fearless  feast, 

Why,  our  jigr/er  ^  will  need  no  burs  ; 
Our  sentry  shall  he  on  the  owlet's  tree, 

And  our  lamps  the  glorious  stars. 

ClLorus. 

So  the  king  to  his  hall,  and  the  steed  to  his  stall, 

And  the  cit  to  his  bilking  board  ; 
But  we  are  not  bound  to  an  acre  of  ground, 

For  our  home  is  the  houseless  sward. 

Rude  as  was  tliis  lawless  stave,  the  spirit  witli  which 
it  was  sung  atoned  to  the  young  stranger  for  its  obscurity 
and  quaintness ;  as  for  his  host,  that  curious  personage 
took  a  lusty  and  prominent  part  in  the  chorus, —  nor  did 
the  old  woods  refuse  their  sliare  of  tlie  burden,  but  sent 
back  a  merry  echo  to  the  chief's  deep  voice,  and  the 
harsher  notes  of  his  jovial  brethren. 

When  the  glee  had  ceased,  King  Cole  rose,  the  whole 
band  followed  his  example,  the  cloth  was  cleared  in  a 
trice,  the  barrel,  —  oh!  what  a  falling-off  was  there!  — 
was  rolled  into  a  corner  of  the  tent,  and  the  crew  to 
wliom  the  awning  belonged  began  to  settle  themselves 
to  rest;  while  those  who  owned  the  other  encampment 
marched  forth  with  King  Cole  at  their  head.  Leaning 
with  no  light  weight  upon  his  guest's  arm,  the  lover  of 
ancient  minstrelsy  poured  into  the  youth's  ear  a  strain 
of  eulogy,  rather  eloquent  than  coherent,  upon  the  scene 
they  had  just  witnessed. 

1  Door. 


THE   DISOWNED.  17 

"What,"  cried  his  majesty,  in  an  enthusiastic  tone, 

—  "  Avhat  can  be  so  truly  regal  as  our  state  ?  Can  any 
man  control  us  ?  Are  we  not  above  all  laws  ?  Are  we 
not  the  most  despotic  of  kings?  Nay,  more  than  the 
kings  of  earth, — are  we  not  the  kings  of  Fairyland 
itself?  Do  we  not  realize  the  golden  dreams  of  the  old 
rhymers,  —  luxurious  dogs  that  they  were  ?  Who  would 
not  cry  out, — 

*  Blest  silent  groves  1     Oh,  may  ye  be 
Forever  Mirth's  best  nursery ! 
May  pure  Contents 
Forever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon   these   downs,   these   meads,  these   rocks,   these 
mountains '  ? " 

Uttering  this  notable  extract  from  the  thrice-honored 
Sir  Henry  Wotton,  King  Cole  turned  abruptly  from 
the  common,  entered  the  wood  which  skirted  it,  and, 
only  attended  by  his  guest  and  his  minister  Mim,  came 
suddenly,  by  an  unexpected  and  picturesque  opening  in 
the  trees,  upon  one  of  those  itinerant  vehicles  termed 
caravans;  he  ascended  the  few  steps  which  led  to  the 
entrance,  opened  the  door,  and  was  instantly  in  the  arms 
of  a  pretty  and  young  woman.  On  seeing  our  hero  (for 
such  we  fear  the  youth  is  likely  to  become)  she  drew 
back  witli  a  blush  not  often  found  upon  regal  cheeks. 

"  Pooh,"  said  King  Cole,  half  tauntingly,  half  fondly, 

—  "pooh,  Lucy,  blushes  are  garden  flowers,  and  ought 
never  to  be  found  wild  in  the  woods;"  then  changing 
his  tone,  he  said,  "  Come,  put  some  fresh  straw  in  the 
corner;  this  stranger  honors  our  palace  to-night.  Mim, 
unload  thyself  of  our  royal  treasures,  —  watch  without, 
and  vanish  from  within!" 

Depositing  on  his  majesty's  floor  the   appurtenances 

VOL.  I.  — 2 


18  THE   DISOWNED. 

of  the  regal  siippor-tal)le,  Mini  made  his  respectful 
adieus,  and  disappeared;  meanwhile  the  queen  scat- 
tered some  fresh  straw  over  a  mattress  in  the  narrow 
chamber,  and  laying  over  all  a  sheet  of  singularly  snowy 
hue,  made  her  guest  some  apology  for  the  badness  of  his 
lodging;  this  King  Cole  interrupted  by  a  most  ela])0- 
rately  noisy  yawn,  and  a  declaration  of  extreme  sleepi- 
ness. "  Xow,  Lucy,  let  us  leave  the  gentleman  to  what 
he  will  like  better  than  soft  words,  even  from  a  queen. 
Good-night,  sir;  we  shall  be  stirring  at  daybreak;  "  and 
with  this  farewell  King  Cole  took  the  lady's  arm,  and 
retired  with  her  into  an  inner  compartment  of  the 
caravan. 

Left  to  himself,  our  hero  looked  round  with  sur- 
prise at  the  exceeding  neatness  which  reigned  over  the 
whole  apartment.  But  what  chiefly  engrossed  the  at- 
tention of  one  to  whose  early  habits  books  had  always 
been  treasures,  were  several  volumes,  ranged  in  comely 
shelves  fenced  with  wire-work,  on  either  side  of  the  fire- 
place. "  Courage,"  thought  he,  as  he  stretched  himself 
on  his  humble  couch ;  "  my  adventures  have  commenced 
well.  A  gypsy  tent,  to  be  sure,  is  nothing  very  new,  but 
^  gypsy  who  quotes  poetry  and  enjoys  a  modest  wife, 
speaks  better  than  books  do  for  the  improvement  of  the 
world. " 


THE   DISOWNED.  19 


CHAPTER  III. 

Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Than  that  of  painted  pomp  ? 

As  You  Like  It. 

j.'he  sun  broke  cheerfully  through  the  small  lattice  of 
the  caravan  as  the  youth  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  the 
good-humored  countenance  of  his  gypsy  host  bending 
over  him  complacently. 

"You  slept  so  soundly,  sir,  that  I  did  not  like  to 
disturb  you;  but  my  good  wife  only  waits  your  rising  to 
have  all  ready  for  breakfast." 

"  It  were  a  thousand  pities,"  cried  the  guest,  leaping 
from  his  bed,  "  that  so  pretty  a  face  should  look  cross  on 
iny  account,  so  I  will  not  keep  her  Avaiting  an  instant." 

The  gypsy  smiled,  as  he  answered,  "  I  require  no 
professional  help  from  the  devil,  sir,  to  foretell  your 
fortune. " 

«>^o!  —and  what  is  it?" 

"  Honor,  reputation,  success,  —  all  that  are  ever  won 
^y  a  soft  tongue,  if  it  be  backed  by  a  bold  heart." 

Bright  and  keen  was  the  flash  which  shot  over  the 
countenance  of  the  one  for  whom  this  prediction  was 
made,  as  he  listened  to  it  with  a  fondness  for  which  his 
reason  rebuked  him.  He  turned  aside  with  a  sigh, 
which  did  not  escape  the  gypsy,  and  bathed  his  face  in 
the  water  which  the  provident  hand  of  the  good  woman 
had  set  out  for  his  lavations. 

"  Well,"  said  his  host,  when  the  youth  had  finished 
his  brief  toilet,  "  suppose  we  breathe  the  fresh  air  Avhile 
Lucy  smooths  your  bed  and  prepares  the  breakfast. " 


20  THE    DISOWNED. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  the  youth,  and  tlioy 
descended  the  steps  which  led  into  the  wood.  It  was  a 
beautiful,  fresh  morning;  the  air  was  like  a  drauglit 
from  a  spirit's  fountain,  and  filled  the  heart  with  new 
youth,  and  the  blood  with  a  rapturous  delight;  the 
leaves — the  green,  green  leaves  of  spring  —  were  quiv- 
ering on  the  trees,  among  which  the  happy  birds  flut- 
tered, and  breathed  the  gladness  of  their  souls  in  song. 
While  the  dewdrops,  that 

Strewed 
A  baptism  o'er  the  flowers, 

gave  back,  in  their  million  mirrors,  the  reflected  smiles 
of  the  cloudless  and  rejoicing  sun. 

"Nature,"  said  the  gypsy,  "has  bestowed  on  her 
children  a  gorgeous  present  in  such  a  morning." 

"  True,"  said  the  youth;  "and  you,  of  us  two,  per- 
haps, only  deserve  it.  As  for  me,  when  I  think  of  the 
long  road  of  dust,  heat,  and  toil,  that  lies  before  me,  I 
could  almost  wish  to  stop  here  and  ask  admission  into 
the  gypsies'   tents." 

"You  could  not  do  a  wiser  thing,"  said  the  gypsy, 
gravely. 

"But  fate  leaves  me  no  choice,"  continued  the  youth, 
as  seriously  as  if  he  were  in  earnest;  "  and  I  must  quit 
you  immediately  after  I  have  a  second  time  tasted  of 
your  hospitable  fare." 

"  If  it  must  be  so,"  answered  the  gypsy,  "  I  will  see 
you  at  least  a  mile  or  two  on  your  road. "  The  youth 
thanked  him  for  a  promise  which  his  curiosity  made 
accnptable,  and  they  turned  once  more  to  the  caravan. 

The  meal,  however  obtained,  met  with  as  much  honor 
as  it  could  possibly  have  received  from  the  farmer  from 
whom  its  materials  were  borrowed. 


THE   DISOWNED.  21 

It  -was  not  -without  complacency  that  the  -worthy  pair 
beheld  the  notice  that  their  guest  lavished  upon  a  fair, 
curly-headed  boy  of  about  three  years  old,  the  sole  child 
and  idol  of  the  gypsy  potentates.  But  they  did  not  per- 
ceive, when  the  youth  rose  to  depart,  that  he  slipped 
into  the  folds  of  the  child's  dress  a  ring  of  some  value, 
the  only  one  he  possessed. 

"  And  now,"  said  he,  after  having  thanked  his  enter, 
tainers  for  their  hospitality,  "  I  must  say  good-by  to 
your  flock,  and  set  out  upon  my  day's  journey." 

Lucy,  despite  her  bashfulness,  shook  hands  -with  her 
handsome  guest,  and  the  latter,  accompanied  by  the 
gypsy  chief,   strolled  down  the  encampments. 

Open  and  free  was  his  parting  farewell  to  the  inmates 
of  the  two  tents,  and  liberal  was  the  hand  Avhich  show- 
ered upon  all  —  especially  on  the  damsel  who  had  been 
his  Thais  of  the  evening  feast  —  the  silver  coins  which 
made  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  his  present  property. 

It  was  amidst  the  oracular  Avishes  and  favorable  pre- 
dictions of  the  whole  crew  that  he  recommenced  his 
journey  with  the  gypsy  chief. 

When  the  tents  were  fairly  out  of  sight,  and  not  till 
then,  King  Cole  broke  the  silence  which  had  as  yet 
subsisted  between  them. 

"  I  suppose,  my  young  gentleman,  that  you  expect  to 

meet  some   of  your  friends  or  relations   at  W 1     I 

know  not  what  they  will  say  when  they  hear  where  you 
have  spent  the  night." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  the  youth ;  "  whoever  hears  my  ad- 
ventures, relation  or  not,  will  be  delighted  with  my 
description;  but  in  sober   earnest,  I   expect  to  find  no 

one  at  W more  my  friend  than  a  surly  innkeeper, 

unless  it  be  his  dog." 

"  Why,  they  surely  do  not  suffer  a  stripling  of  your 


22  THE   DISO'VrN'ED. 

youth,  and  evident  quality,  to  Avander  alone!"  cried 
King  Cole,  in  undisguised  surprise. 

The  young  traveller  made  no  prompt  answer,  but  bent 
down  as  if  to  pluck  a  wild-flower  which  grew  by  the 
roadside;  after  a  pause,    he  said, — 

"  Nay,  Master  Cole,  you  must  not  set  me  the  exam- 
ple of  playing  the  inquisitor,  or  you  cannot  guess  how 
troublesome  I  shall  be.  To  tell  you  truth,  I  am  dying 
with  curiosity  to  know  something  more  about  you  than 
you  may  be  disposed  to  tell  me;  you  have  already  con- 
fessed that,  however  boon  companions  your  gypsies  may 
be,  it  is  not  among  gypsies  that  you  were  born  and 
bred." 

King  Cole  laughed ;  perhaps  he  was  not  ill-pleased  by 
the  curiosity  of  his  guest,  nor  by  the  opportunity  it 
afforded  him  of  being  his  own  hero. 

"  My  story,  sir,"  said  he,  "  would  be  soon  told,  if  you 
thought  it  worth  the  hearing,  nor  does  it  contain  any- 
thing which  should  prevent  my  telling  it." 

"  If  so,"  quoth  the  youth,  "  I  shall  conceive  your  sat- 
isfying my  request  a  still  greater  favor  than  those  yoix 
have  already  bestowed  upon  me." 

The  gypsy  relaxed  his  pace  into  an  indolent  saunter, 
as  he  commenced :  — 

"  The  first  scene  that  I  remember  was  similar  to  that 
which  you  witnessed  last  night.  The  savage  tent,  and 
the  green  moor,  the  fagot  blaze,  the  eternal  pot,  with  its 
hissing  note  of  preparation,  the  old  dame  who  tended 
it,  and  the  ragged  urchins  who  learned  from  its  contents 
the  first  reward  of  theft,  and  the  earliest  temptation  to 
it,  —  all  these  are  blended  into  agreeable  confusion  as 
the  primal  impressions  of  my  childhood.  The  woman 
who  niirtured  me  as  my  mother  was  rather  capricious 
than  kind,  and  my   infancy  passed  away,  like  that  of 


THE   DISOWNED.  23 

more  favored  scions  of  fortune,  in  alternate  chastisement 
and  caresses.  In  good  truth,  Kinching  Meg  had  the 
shrillest  voice  and  the  heaviest  hand  of  the  whole  crew, 
and  I  cannot  complain  of  injustice,  since  she  treated  me 
no  worse  than  the  rest.  Notwithstanding  the  irregu- 
larity of  my  education,  I  grew  up  strong  and  healthy, 
and  my  reputed  mother  had  taught  me  so  much  fear  for 
herself  that  she  left  me  none  for  anything  else ;  accord- 
ingly, I  became  bold,  reckless,  and  adventurous,  and  at 
the  age  of  thirteen  was  as  thorough  a  reprobate  as  the 
tribe  could  desire.  At  that  time  a  singular  change  be- 
fell me ;  we  (that  is,  my  mother  and  myself)  were  beg- 
ging, not  many  miles  hence,  at  the  door  of  a  rich  man's 
house,  in  which  the  mistress  lay  on  her  death-bed. 
That  mistress  was  my  real  mother,  from  whom  Meg 
had  stolen  me  in  my  first  year  of  existence.  Whether 
it  was  through  the  fear  of  conscience,  or  the  hope  of 
reward,  no  soone?  had  Meg  learned  the  dangerous  state 
of  my  poor  mother,  the  constant  grief  which  they  said 
had  been  the  sole,  though  slow  cause  of  her  disease,  and 
the  large  sums  which  had  been  repeatedly  offered  for  my 
recovery,  — no  sooner,  I  say,  did  Meg  ascertain  all  these 
particulars,  than  she  fought  her  way  up  to  the  sick- 
chamber,  fell  on  her  knees  before  the  bed,  owned  her 
crime,  and  produced  myself.  Various  little  proofs  of 
time,  place,  circumstance:  the  clothing  T  had  worn  when 
stolen,  and  which  was  still  preserved,  joined  to  the 
striking  likeness  I  bore  to  both  my  parents,  especially 
to  my  father,  silenced  all  doubt  and  incredulity;  I  was 
welcomed  home  with  a  joy  which  it  is  in  vain  to  de- 
scribe. My  return  seemed  to  recall  my  mother  from  the 
grave ;  she  lingered  on  for  many  months  longer  than  her 
physicians  thought  it  possible,  and  when  she  died,  her 
last  words  commended  me  to  my  father's  protection. 


24  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  My  surviving  parent  needed  no  such  request.  He 
lavished  upon  me  all  that  superfluity  of  fondness  and 
food  of  which  those  good  people  who  are  resolved  to 
spoil  their  children  are  so  prodigal.  He  could  not  bear 
tlie  idea  of  sending  me  to  school ;  accordingly  he  took  a 
tutor  for  me,  a  simple-hearted,  gentle,  kind  man,  wlio 
possessed  a  vast  store  of  learning  rather  curious  than 
useful.  He  was  a  tolerable,  and  at  least  an  enthusiastic, 
antiquarian, — a  more  than  tolerable  poetaster;  and  he 
had  a  prodigious  budget  full  of  old  ballads  and  songs, 
which  he  loved  better  to  teach  and  /  to  learn  than  all 
the  *  Latin,  Greek,  geography,  astronomy,  and  the  use 
of  the  globes,'  which  my  poor  father  had  so  sedulously 
bargained  for. 

"  Accordingly,  I  became  exceedingly  well-informed  in 
all  the  '  precious  conceits  '  and  '  golden  garlands  '  of  our 
British  ancients,  and  continued  exceedingly  ignorant  of 
everything  else,  save  and  except  a  few  of  the  most  fash- 
ionable novels  of  the  day,  and  the  contents  of  six  lying 
volumes  of  voyages  and  travels,  which  flattered  botli  my 
appetite  for  the  wonderful  and  my  love  of  the  adventu- 
rous. My  studies,  such  as  they  were,  were  not  by  any 
means  suited  to  curb  or  direct  the  vagrant  tastes  my 
chiklhood  had  acquired;  on  the  contrary,  the  old  poets, 
Avith  their  luxurious  description  of  the  '  green  wood,' 
and  the  forest  life;  the  fashionable  novelists,  with  their 
spirited  accounts  of  the  wanderings  of  some  fortunate 
rogue;  and  the  ingenious  travellers,  with  their  wild 
fables,  so  dear  to  the  imagination  of  every  boy,  only 
fomented  within  me  a  strong  though  secret  regret  at  my 
change  of  life,  and  a  restless  disgust  to  the  tame  home 
and  bounded  roamings  to  which  I  was  condemned. 
Wlien  I  was  about  seventeen,  my  father  sold  his  prop- 
erty (which  he  had  become  possessed  of  in  right  of  my 


THE   DISOWNED.  25 

mother),  and  transferred  the  purchase-money  to  the 
security  of  the  Funds.  Shortly  afterwards  he  died: 
the  bulk  of  his  fortune  became  mine ;  the  remainder 
was  settled  upon  a  sister,  many  years  older  than  myself, 
who,  in  consequence  of  her  marriage  and  residence  in  a 
remote  part  of  Wales,  I  had  never  yet  seen. 

"  Now,  then,  I  was  perfectly  free  and  unfettered;  my 
guardian  lived  in  Scotland,  and  left  me  entirely  to  the 
guidance  of  my  tutor,  who  was  both  too  simple  and  too 
indolent  to  resist  my  inclinations.  I  went  to  London, 
became  acqviainted  with  a  set  of  most  royal  scamps,  fre- 
quented the  theatres  and  the  taverns,  the  various  resorts 
which  constitute  the  gayeties  of  a  blood  just  above  the 
middle  class,  and  was  one  of  the  noisiest  and  wildest 
'  blades  '  that  ever  heard  '  the  chimes  by  midnight,'  and 
the  magistrate's  lecture  for  matins.  I  was  a  sort  of 
leader  among  the  jolly  dogs  I  consorted  with.  My  ear- 
lier education  gave  a  raciness  and  nature  to  my  delinea- 
tions of  *  life,'  which  delighted  them.  But,  somehow 
or  other,  I  grew  wearied  of  this  sort  of  existence.  About 
a  year  after  I  was  of  age ,  my  fortune  was  more  than  three 
parts  spent;  I  fell  ill  with  drinking,  and  grew  dull  with 
remorse,  —  need  I  add  that  my  comrades  left  me  to  my- 
self 1  A  fit  of  the  spleen,  especially  if  accompanied  with 
duns  makes  one  woefully  misanthropic;  so  when  I  re- 
covered from  my  illness  I  set  out  on  a  tour  through 
Great  Britain  and  France,  —  alone,  and  principally  on 
foot.  Oh,  the  rapture  of  shaking  off  the  half  friends 
and  cold  formalities  of  society,  and  finding  one's  self  all 
unfettered,  with  no  companion  but  nature,  no  guide  but 
youth ,  and  no  flatterer  but  hope ! 

"  Well,  my  young  friend,  I  travelled  for  two  years, 
and  saw,  even  in  that  short  time,  enough  of  this  busy 
world  to  weary  and  disgust  me  with  its  ordinary  customs. 


26  THE   DISOWNED. 

I  was  not  made  to  be  polite,  still  less  to  he  amhitious. 
I  sighed  after  the  coarse  comrades  and  the  free  tents  of 
my  first  associates,  and  a  thousand  rememl^rances  of  the 
gypsy  wanderings,  steeped  in  all  the  green  and  exhila- 
rating colors  of  childhood,  perpetually  haunted  my  mind. 
On  my  return  from  my  wanderings,  I  found  a  letter  from 
my  sister,  who,  having  become  a  widow,  had  left  Wales, 
and  had  now  fixed  her  residence  in  a  well-visited  water- 
ing-place in  the  west  of  England.  I  had  never  yet  seen 
her,  and  her  letter  was  a  fine,  ladylike  sort  of  epistle, 
with  a  great  deal  of  romance  and  a  very  little  sense, 
written  in  an  extremely  pretty  hand,  and  ending  with  a 
quotation  from  Pope.  (I  never  could  endure  Pope,  nor 
indeed  any  of  the  poets  of  the  days  of  Anne  and  her 
successors.)  It  was  a  beautiful  season  of  the  year;  I 
had  been  inured  to  pedestrian  excursions,  so  I  set  off  on 
foot  to  see  my  nearest  surviving  relative.  On  the  way, 
I  fell  in  (though  on  a  very  different  spot)  with  the  very 
encampment  you  saw  last  night.  By  Heavens!  that  was 
a  merry  meeting  to  me;  I  joined,  and  journeyed  with 
them  for  several  days,  —  never  do  I  remember  a  happier 
time.  Then,  after  many  years  of  bondage,  and  stiffness, 
and  accordance  with  the  world,  I  found  myself  at  ease, 
like  a  released  bird;  with  what  zest  did  I  join  in  the 
rude  jokes  and  the  knavish  tricks,  the  stolen  feasts  and 
the  roofless  nights  of  those  careless  vagabonds. 

"  I  left  my  fellow-travellers  at  the  entrance  of  the 
town  where  my  sister  lived.  Now  came  the  contrast. 
Somewhat  hot,  rather  coarsely  clad,  and  covered  with 
the  dust  of  a  long  summer's  day,  I  was  ushered  into  a 
little  drawing-room,  eighteen  feet  by  twelve,  as  I  was 
afterwards  somewhat  pompously  informed.  A  flaunting 
carpfjt,  green,  red,  and  yellow,  covered  the  floor.  A 
full-length  picture  of  a  thin  woman,  looking  most  agree- 


THE    DISOWNED.  27 

ably  ill-tempered,  stared  down  at  me  from  the  chimney- 
piece  ;  three  stuffed  birds  —  how  emblematic  of  domestic 
life!  — stood  stiff  and  imprisoned,  even  after  death,  in  a 
glass  cage.  A  fire-screen  and  a  bright  fireplace,  chairs 
covered  with  hoi  land  to  preserve  them  from  the  atmos- 
phere, and  long  mirrors  wrapped,  as  to  the  framework, 
in  yellow  muslin,  to  keep  off  the  flies,  finish  the  pano- 
rama of  this  watering-place  mansion.  The  door  opened; 
silks  rustled, — voice  shrieked  *  My  brother!  '  And  a 
figure  —  a  thin  figure,  the  original  of  the  picture  over 
the  chimney-piece  —  rushed  in." 

"  I  can  well  fancy  her  joy,"  said  the  youth. 

"  You  can  do  no  such  thing,  begging  your  pardon,  sir," 
resumed  King  Cole.  "  She  had  no  joy  at  all;  she  was 
exceedingly  surprised  and  disappointed.  In  spite  of  my 
early  adventures,  I  had  nothing  picturesque  or  romantic 
about  me  at  all.  I  was  very  thirsty,  and  I  called  for 
beer;  I  was  very  tired,  and  I  lay  down  on  the  sofa;  I 
wore  thick  shoes,  and  small  buckles;  and  my  clothes 
were  made,  God  knows  where,  and  were  certainly  put 
on  God  knows  how.  My  sister  was  miserably  ashamed 
of  me ;  she  had  not  even  the  manners  to  disguise  it.  In 
a  higher  rank  of  life  than  that  which  she  held,  she  would 
have  suffered  far  less  mortification;  for  I  fancy  great 
people  pay  but  little  real  attention  to  externals.  Even 
if  a  man  of  rank  is  vulgar,  it  makes  no  difference  in 
the  orbit  in  which  he  moves ;  but  your  '  genteel  gentle- 
women '  are  so  terribly  dependent  upon  what  Mrs. 
Tomkins  will  say;  so  very  uneasy  about  their  rela- 
tions, and  the  opinion  they  are  held  in;  and,  above  all, 
so  made  up  of  appearances  and  clothes,  —  so  undone  if 
they  do  not  eat,  drink,  and  talk  a  la  mode,  that  I  can 
fancy  no  shame  like  that  of  my  poor  sister  having  found, 
and  being  found  with  a  vulgar  brother. 


28  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  I  saw  how  unwelcome  I  was,  and  I  did  not  punish 
myself  by  a  long  visit.  I  left  her  house,  and  returned 
towards  London.  On  my  road  I  again  met  with  my 
gypsy  friends ;  the  warmth  of  their  welcome  enchanted 
me,  —  you  may  guess  the  rest.  I  stayed  with  them  so 
long  that  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them ;  I  re-entered 
tlieir  crew ;  I  am  one  among  them.  Not  that  I  have  be- 
come altogether  and  solely  of  the  tribe  :  I  still  leave  them 
whenever  the  whim  seizes  me,  and  repair  to  the  great 
cities  and  thoroughfares  of  nian.  There  I  am  soon 
driven  back  again  to  my  favorite  and  fresh  fields,  as  a 
reed  upon  a  wild  stream  is  dashed  back  upon  the  green 
rushes  from  which  it  has  been  torn.  You  perceive  that 
I  have  many  comforts  and  distinctions  above  the  rest; 
for,  alas,  sir,  there  is  no  society,  however  free  and  demo- 
cratic, where  wealth  will  not  create  an  aristocracy.  The 
remnant  of  my  fortune  provides  me  with  my  unostenta- 
tious equipage,  and  the  few  luxuries  it  contains;  it 
repays  secretly  to  the  poor  what  my  fellow- vagrants 
occasionally  filch  from  them;  it  allows  me  to  curb  among 
the  crew  all  the  grosser  and  heavier  offences  against  the 
law  to  which  want  might  otherwise  compel  them;  and 
it  serves  to  keep  up  that  sway  and  ascendancy  which  my 
superior  education  and  fluent  spirits  enabled  me  at  first 
to  attain.  Though  not  legally  their  king,  I  assume 
that  title  over  the  few  encampments  with  whicli  I  am 
accustomed  to  travel,  and  you  perceive  that  I  have  given 
my  simple  name  both  to  the  jocular  and  kingly  dignity 
of  which  the  old  song  will  often  remind  you.  My 
story  is  done." 

"  Not  quite,"  said  his  companion :  "  your  wife  ?  How 
came  you  by  that  blessing  %  " 

"Ah!  thereby  hangs  a  pretty  and  a  love-sick  tale, 
which  would  not  sound  ill  in  an  ancient  ballad;  but  I 


THE   DISOWNED.  29 

will  content  myself  with  briefly  sketching  it.  Lucy  is 
the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  farmer;  about  four  years 
ago  I  fell  in  love  with  her.  I  wooed  her  clandestinely, 
and  at  last  I  owned  I  was  a  gypsy ;  I  did  not  add  my 
birth  nor  fortime,  —  no,  I  was  full  of  the  romance 
of  the  Nut-brown  Maid's  lover,  and  attempted  a  trial 
of  woman's  affection,  which  even  in  these  days  was  not 
disappointed.  Still  her  father  would  not  consent  to  our 
marriage,  till,  very  luckily,  things  went  bad  with  him: 
corn,  crops,  cattle, —  the  deuce  was  in  them  all;  an  exe- 
cution was  in  his  house,  and  a  writ  out  against  his 
person.  I  settled  these  matters  for  him,  and  in  return 
received  a  father-iu-law's  blessing,  and  we  are  now  the 
best  friends  in  the  world.  Poor  Lucy  is  perfectly  recon- 
ciled to  her  caravan  and  her  wandering  husband,  and  has 
never,  I  believe,  once  repented  the  day  on  which  she 
became  the  gypsy's  wife!  " 

"  I  thank  you  heartily  for  your  history,"  said  the 
youth,  who  had  listened  very  attentively  to  this  detail; 
"  and  though  my  happiness  and  pursuits  are  centred  in 
that  world  which  you  despise,  yet  I  confess  that  I  feel  a 
sensation  very  like  envy  at  your  singular  choice ;  and  I 
would  not  dare  to  ask  of  my  heart  whether  that  choice 
is  not  happier,  as  it  is  certainly  more  philosophical  than 
mine. " 

They  had  now  reached  a  part  of  the  road  where  the 
country  assumed  a  totally  difl'erent  character ;  the  woods 
and  moors  were  no  longer  visible,  but  a  broad  and  some- 
what bleak  extent  of  country  lay  before  them.  Here  and 
there  only  a  few  solitary  trees  broke  the  uniformity  of 
the  wide  fields  and  scanty  hedgerows,  and  at  distant 
intervals  the  thin  spires  of  the  scattered  churches  rose 
like  the  prayers  of  which  they  were  the  symbols,  to 
mingle  themselves  with  heaven. 


30  THE   DISOWNED. 

The  gypsy  paused:  "  I  will  accompany  yon,"  said  he, 
"no  farther;  your  way  lies  straight  onwards,  and   you 

will  reach  W before  noon.     Farewell,  and  may  God 

watch  over  you!  " 

"  Farewell !  "  said  the  youth ,  warmly  pressing  the  hand 
which  was  extended  to  him.  "  If  we  ever  meet  again,  it 
will  probably  solve  a  curious  riddle,  — namely,  whether 
you  are  not  disgusted  with  the  caravan,  and  I  with  the 
world!  " 

"  The  latter  is  more  likely  than  the  former,"  said  the 
gypsy ;  "  for  one  stands  a  much  greater  chance  of  being 
disgusted  with  others  than  with  one's  self;  so,  changing 
a  little  the  old  lines,  I  will  wish  you  adieu  after  my 
own  fashion,  — namely,  in  verse:  — 

'  Go,  set  thy  heart  on  winged  wealth. 

Or  unto  honor's  towers  aspire  ; 
But  give  me  freedom  and  my  health, 
And  there 's  the  sum  of  my  desire  !  *  ** 


THE   DISOWNED.  31 


CHAPTER   IV. 

The  letter,  Madam,  —  have  you  none  for  me? 

77ie  Rendezvous. 
Provide  surgeons.  —  The  Lover's  Progress, 

Our  solitary  traveller  pursued  his  way  with  the  light 
step  and  gay  spirits  of  youth  and  health. 

"Turn  gypsy,  indeed!  "  he  said,  talking  to  himself; 
"  there  is  something  better  in  store  for  me  than  that. 
Ay,  I  have  all  the  world  before  me  where  to  choose, 
—  not  my  place  of  rest.  No,  many  a  long  year  will  pass 
away  ere  any  place  of  rest  will  be  my  choice !     I  wonder 

whether  I  shall  find  the   letter  at  W ;  the  letter, 

the  last  letter  I  shall  ever  have  from  home :  but  it  is  no 
home  to  me  now;  and  / — I,  insulted,  reviled,  trampled 
upon,  without  even  a  name!  Well,  well,  I  will  earn  a 
still  fairer  one  than  that  of  my  forefathers.  They  shall 
be  proud  to  own  me  yet."  And  with  these  words  the 
speaker  broke  off  abruptly,  with  a  swelling  chest  and  a 
flashing  eye;  and  as,  an  unknown  and  friendless  adven- 
turer, he  gazed  on  the  expanded  and  silent  country 
around  him,  he  felt,  like  Castruccio  Castrucani,  that  he 
could  stretch  his  hands  to  the  east  and  to  the  west,  and 
exclaim,  "  Oh,  that  my  power  kept  pace  with  my  spirit, 
then  should  it  grasp  the  corners  of  the  earth. " 

The  road  wound  at  last  from  the  champaign  country, 
through  which  it  had  for  some  miles  extended  itself, 
into  a  narrow  lane,  girded  on  either  side  by  a  dead  fence. 
As  the  youth  entered  this  lane,  he  was  somewhat 
startled  by  the  abrupt  appearance  of  a  horseman,  whose 
steed  leaped  the  hedge  so  close  to  our  hero  as  almost  to 


32  THE   DISOWNED. 

endanger  liis  safety.  The  rider,  a  gentleman  of  about 
five-and-twenty,  pulled  up,  and,  in  a  tone  of  great  cour- 
tesy, apologized  for  his  inadvertency;  the  apology  was 
readily  admitted,  and  the  horseman  rode  onwards  in  the 
direction  of  W . 

Trifling  as  this  incident  was,  the  air  and  mien  of  the 
stranger  were  sufficient  to  arrest,  irresistibly,  the 
thoughts  of  the  young  traveller;  and  before  they  had 
flowed  into  a  fresh  channel  he  found  himself  in  the  town, 
and  at  the  door  of  the  inn  to  which  his  expedition  was 
bound.  He  entered  the  bar ;  a  buxom  landlady  and  a 
still  more  buxom  daughter  were  presiding  over  the  spirits 
of  the  place. 

"  You  have  some  boxes  and  a  letter  for  me,  I  believe," 
said  the  young  gentleman  to  the  comely  hostess. 

"  To  yon,  sir!  the  name,  if  you  please  1  " 

"  To  —  to  —  to  C.  L. ,"  said  the  youth;  "the  initials 
C.  L. ,  to  be  left  till  called  for." 

"  Yes,  sir,  we  have  some  luggage,  —  came  last  night 
by  the  van,  —  and  a  letter  besides,  sir,  to  C.  L.  also." 

The  daughter  lifted  her  large,  dark  eyes  at  the  hand- 
some stranger,  and  felt  a  wonderful  curiosity  to  know 
what  the  letter  to  C.  L.  could  possibly  be  about;  mean- 
while mine  hostess,  raising  her  hand  to  a  shelf  on  which 
stood  an  Indian  slop-basin,  the  great  ornament  of  the  bar 
at  the  Golden  Fleece,  brought  from  its  cavity  a  well- 
folded  and  well-sealed  epistle. 

"That  is  it,"  cried  the  youth;  "show  me  a  private 
room  instantly." 

"What  am  he  want  a  private  room  for?"  thought 
the  landlady's  daughter. 

"  Show  the  gentleman  to  the  Griffin,  No.  4,  John 
Merry  lack,"  said  the  landlady  herself. 

With  an  impatient  step  the  owner  of  the  letter  fol- 


THE   DISOWNED,  33 

lowed  a  slip-shod  and  marvellously  unwashed  waiter  into 
No,  4,  —  a  small,  square  asylum  for  town  travellers, 
country  yeomen,  and  "  single  gentlemen ;  "  presenting,  on 
the  one  side,  an  admirable  engraving  of  the  Marquess  of 
Granhy,  and  on  the  other  an  equally  delightful  view  of 
the  stable-yard. 

Mr,  C.  L.  flung  himself  on  a  chair  (there  were  only 
four  chairs  in  Ko,  4),  watched  the  waiter  out  of  the 
room,  seized  his  letter,  broke  open  the  seal,  and  read 
—  yea,  reader,  you  shall  read  it  too  —  as  follows:  — 

"  Enclosed  is  the  sum  to  which  you  are  entitled  ;  remember, 
that  it  is  all  which  you  can  ever  claim  at  my  hands ;  remember 
also,  that  you  have  made  the  choice  which,  now,  nothing  can 
persuade  me  to  alter.  Be  the  name  you  have  so  long  iuiqui- 
tously  borne  henceforth  and  always  forgotten;  upon  that  con- 
dition you  may  yet  hope,  from  my  generosity,  the  future  assist- 
ance which  you  must  want,  but  which  you  could  not  ask  from 
my  affection.  Equally,  by  my  heart  and  my  reason,  you  are 
forever  disoimied." 

The  letter  fell  from  the  reader's  hands.  He  took  up 
the  enclosure;  it  was  an  order  payable  in  London  for 
£1000;  to  him  it  seemed  like  the  rental  of  the  Indies. 

"  Be  it  so!  "  he  said  aloud,  and  slowly,  —  "  be  it  so! 
With  this  will  I  carve  my  way;  many  a  name  in  history 
was  built  upon  a  worse  foundation !  " 

With  these  words  he  carefully  put  up  the  money, 
re-read  the  brief  note  which  enclosed  it,  tore  the  latter 
into  pieces,  and  then,  going  towards  the  aforesaid  view 
of  the  stable-yard,  threw  open  the  window  and  leaned 
out,  apparently  in  earnest  admiration  of  two  pigs,  which 
marched,  gruntingly,  towards  him,  one  goat  regaling 
himself  upon  a  cabbage,  and  a  broken-winded,  emaciated 
horse,  which  having  just  been,  what  the  hostler  called, 

VOL.  I.  —  3 


34  THE    DISOWNED. 

"rubbed  down,"  was  just  going  to  be,  what  the  hostler 
called,  "fed." 

While  engaged  in  tliis  interesting  survey,  the  clatter 
of  hoofs  was  suddenly  heard  upon  the  rough  pavement: 
a  bell  rang,  a  dog  barked,  the  pigs  grunted,  the  hostler 
ran  out,  and  the  stranger,  whom  our  hero  had  before  met 
on  the  road,  trotted  into  the  yard. 

It  was  evident  from  the  obsequiousness  of  the  atten- 
dants, that  the  horseman  was  a  personage  of  no  mean  im- 
portance; and  indeed  there  was  something  singularly 
distinguished  and  high-bred  in  his  air  and  carriage. 

"  Who  can  that  be  1  "  said  the  youth,  as  the  horseman, 
having  dismounted,  turned  towards  the  door  of  the  inn: 
the  question  was  readily  answered,  "  There  goes  pride 
and  poverty!  "  said  the  hostler.  — "  Here  comes  Squire 
Mordaunt!  "  said  the  landlady. 

At  the  further  end  of  the  stable-yard,  through  a  nar- 
row gate,  the  youth  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  green  sward 
and  springing  flowers  of  a  small  garden.  Wearied  with, 
the  sameness  of  No.  4,  rather  than  with  his  journey,  he 
sauntered  toM'ards  the  said  gate,  and,  seating  himself  in 
a  small  arbor  within  the  garden,  surrendered  himself  to 
reflection. 

The  result  of  this  self-conference  was  a  determination 
to  leave  the  Golden  Fleece  by  the  earliest  conveyance 
which  went  to  that  great  object  and  emporium  of  all  his 
plans  and  thoughts,  London.  As,  full  of  this  resolution, 
and  buried  in  the  dreams  which  it  conjured  up,  he  was 
returning  with  downcast  eyes  and  unlieeding  steps 
through  the  stable-yard,  to  the  delights  of  No.  4,  he  was 
suddenly  accosted  by  a  loud  and  alarmed  voice,  — 

"  For  God's  sake,  sir,  look  out,  or —  " 

The  sentence  was  broken  off",  the  intended  warning 
came  too  late,  our  hero  staggered  back  a  few  steps,  and 


THE   DISOWNED.  35 

fell,  stunned  and  motionless,  against  the  stable-door. 
Unconsciously  he  had  passed  just  behind  the  heels  of  the 
stranger's  horse,  which,  being  by  no  means  in  good 
humor  with  the  clumsy  manoeuvres  of  his  shampooer, 
the  hostler,  had  taken  advantage  of  the  opportunity  pre- 
sented to  him  of  working  off  his  irritability,  and  had 
consequently  inflicted  a  severe  kick  upon  the  right 
shoulder  of  Mr.  C.  L. 

The  stranger,  honored  by  the  landlady  with  the  name 
and  title  of  Squire  Mordaunt,  was  in  the  yard  at  the 
moment.  He  hastened  towards  the  sufferer,  who  as 
yet  was  scarcely  sensible,  and  led  him  into  the  house. 
The  surgeon  of  the  village  was  sent  for,  and  appeared. 
This  disciple  of  Galen,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of 
Jeremiah  Bossolton,  was  a  gentleman  considerably  more 
inclined  to  breadth  than  length.  He  was  exactly  five 
feet  one  inch  in  height,  but  thick  and  solid  as  a  mile- 
stone ;  a  wig  of  modern  cut,  carefully  curled  and  pow- 
dered, gave  somewhat  of  a  modish,  and  therefore  vm- 
seemly  grace  to  a  solemn  eye ;  a  mouth  drawn  down  at 
the  corners ;  a  nose  that  had  something  in  it  exceedingly 
consequential;  eyebrows  sage  and  shaggy;  ears  large 
and  fiery ;  and  a  chin  that  would  have  done  honor  to  a 
mandarin.  Now,  Mr.  Jeremiah  Bossolton  had  a  certain 
peculiarity  of  speech  to  which  I  fear  I  shall  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  do  justice.  Nature  had  impressed  upon  his  mind 
a  prodigious  love  of  the  grandiloquent;  Mr.  Bossolton, 
therefore,  disdained  the  exact  language  of  the  vulgar, 
and  built  unto  himself  a  lofty  fabric  of  words  in  which 
his  sense  managed  very  frequently  to  lose  itself.  More- 
over, upon  beginning  a  sentence  of  peculiar  dignity,  Mr. 
Bossolton  was,  it  must  be  confessed,  sometimes  at  a  loss 
to  conclude  it  in  a  period  worthy  of  the  commencement; 
and  this  caprice  of  nature,  which  had  endowed  him  with 


36  THE  DISOWNED. 

more  WDrds  than  thoughts  (necessity  is,  indeed,  the 
mother  of  invention),  drove  liim  into  a  very  ingenious 
method  of  remedying  the  deficiency;  this  was  simply 
the  plan  of  repeating  the  sense  hy  inverting  the  sentence. 

"  How  long  a  period  of  time,"  said  Mr.  Bossolton, 
"  has  elapsed  since  this  deeply-to-he-regretted  and 
seriously-to-be-investigated  accident  occurred?  " 

"Not  many  minutes,"  said  Mr.  Mordaunt:  "  make  no 
further  delay,  I  beseech  you,  but  examine  the  arm;  it  is 
not  broken,  I  trust  ?  " 

"  In  this  world,  Mr.  Mordaunt,"  said  the  practitioner, 
bowing  very  low,  for  the  person  he  addressed  was  of  the 
most  ancient  lineage  in  the  county,  —  "  in  this  world, 
Mr.  Mordaunt,  even  at  the  earliest  period  of  civiliza- 
tion, delay  in  matters  of  judgment  has  ever  been  consid- 
ered of  such  vital  importance,  and  —  and  such  important 
vitality,  that  we  find  it  inculcated  in  the  proverbs  of  the 
Greeks,  and  the  sayings  of  the  Chaldeans,  as  a  principle 
of  the  most  expedient  utility,  and  —  and  —  the  most 
useful  expediency!  " 

"  Mr.  Bossolton,"  said  Mordaunt,  in  a  tone  of  remarka- 
ble and  even  artificial  softness  and  civility,"  have  the  kind- 
ness immediately  to  examine  this  gentleman's  bruises." 

Mr.  Bossolton  looked  up  to  the  calm  but  haughty  face 
of  the  speaker,  and,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  pro- 
ceeded to  handle  the  arm  which  was  already  stripped  for 
his  survey. 

"It  frequently  occurs,"  said  Mr.  Bossolton,  "in  the 
course  of  my  profession,  that  the  forcible,  sudden,  and 
vehement  application  of  any  hard  substance,  like  the 
hoof  of  a  quadruped,  to  the  soft,  tender,  and  carniferous 
parts  of  the  human  frame,  such  as  the  arm,  occasions  a 
pain,  a  pang,  I  should  rather  say,  of  the  intensest  acute- 
ness,  and  —  and  of  the  acutest  intensity. " 


THE  DISOWNED.  37 

"  Pray ,  Mr.  Bossolton ,  is  the  bone  broken  1 "  asked 
Mordaimt. 

By  this  time  the  patient,  who  had  been  hitherto  in 
that  languor  which  extreme  pain  always  produces  at 
first,  especially  on  young  frames,  was  sufficiently  recov- 
ered to  mark  and  reply  to  the  kind  solicitude  of  the  last 
speaker:  "  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  smile,  "  for 
your  anxiety,  but  I  feel  that  the  bone  is  not  broken,  the 
muscles  are  a  little  hurt,  —  that  is  all." 

"Young  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Bossolton,  "you  must 
permit  me  to  say  that  they  who  have  all  their  lives  been 
employed  in  the  pursuit  and  the  investigation,  and  the 
analysis  of  certain  studies,  are,  in  general,  better  ac- 
quainted with  those  studies  than  they  who  have  neither 
given  them  any  importance  of  consideration,  nor  —  nor 
any  consideration  of  importance.  Establishing  this  as 
my  hypothesis,  I  shall  now  proceed  to  —  " 

"  Apply  immediate  remedies,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Bos- 
solton," interrupted  Mr.  Mordaunt,  in  that  sweet  and 
honeyed  tone  which  somehow  or  other  always  silenced 
even  the  garrulous  practitioner. 

Driven  into  taciturnity,  Mr.  Bossolton  again  inspected 
the  arm,  and  proceeded  to  urge  the  application  of  lini- 
ments and  bandages,  which  he  promised  to  prepare  with 
the  most  solicitudinous  despatch  and  the  most  despatch- 
ful  solicitude. 


38  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Your  name,  sir  I 

Ha !  my  name,  you  say,  — my  name  ? 
Tis  well;  my  name  —  is  —  nay,  I  must  consider. 

PedriUo. 

This  accident  occasioned  a  delay  of  some  days  in  the 
plans  of  the  young  gentleman,  for  whom  we  trust,  very 
soon,  both  for  our  own  convenience  and  that  of  our 
reader,  to  find  a  fitting  appellation. 

Mr.  Mordaunt,  after  seeing  every  attention  paid  to 
him,  both  surgical  and  hospitable,  took  his  departure 
with  a  promise  to  call  the  next  day,  leaving  behind 
him  a  strong  impression  of  curiosity  and  interest  to  serve 
our  hero  as  some  mental  occupation  until  his  return. 
The  bonny  landlady  came  up  in  a  new  cap,  with  blue 
ribbons,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  to  pay  a  visit  of 
inquiry  to  the  handsome  patient,  who  was  removed  from 
the  Griffin,  No.  4,  to  the  Dragon,  No.  8:  a  room  whose 
merits  were  exactly  in  proportion  to  its  number,  — 
namely,  twice  as  great  as  those  of  No,  4. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Taptape,  with  a  courtesy,  "  I 
trust  you  find  yourself  better. " 

"  At  this  moment  I  do,"  said  the  gallant  youth,  with 
a  significant  air. 

"  Hem!  "  quoth  the  landlady. 

A  pause  ensued.  In  spite  of  the  compliment,  a  cer- 
tain suspicion  suddenly  darted  across  the  mind  of  the 
hostess.  Strong  as  are  the  prepossessions  of  the  sex, 
those  of  the  profession  are  much  stronger. 


THE   DISOWNED.  39 

"Honest  folk,"  thought  the  landlady,  "don't  travel 
with  their  initials  only ;  the  last  '  Whitehall  Evening ' 
was  full  of  shocking  accounts  of  swindlers  and  cheats; 
and  I  gave  nine  pounds  odd  shillings  for  the  silver 
teapot  John  has  brought  him  up, —  as  if  the  delf  one  was 
not  good  enough  for  a  foot  traveller." 

Pursuing  these  ideas,  Mrs.  Taptape,  looking  bashfully 
down,  said,  — 

"  By  the  by,  sir,  Mr.  Bossolton  asked  me  what  aame 
he  should  put  down  in  his  book  for  the  medicines :  what 
would  you  please  me  to  say,  sir?  " 

"  Mr.  who?  "  said  the  youth,  elevating  his  eyebrows. 

"Mr.  Bossolton,  sir,  the  apothecary." 

"Oh,  Bossolton!  very  odd  name  that:  not  near  so 
pretty  as  —  dear  me  what  a  beautiful  cap  that  is  of 
yours !  "  said  the  young  gentleman. 

"  Lord,  sir,  do  you  think  so?  The  ribbon  is  pretty 
enough;  but  —  but,  as  I  was  saying,  what  name  shall  I 
tell  Mr.  Bossolton  to  put  in  his  book?  "  This,  thought 
Mrs.  Taptape,  is  coming  to  the  point. 

"Well!"  said  the  youth,  slowly,  and  as  if  in  a 
profound  reverie,  —  "well,  Bossolton  is  certainly  the 
most  singular  name  I  ever  heard;  he  does  right  to 
put  it  in  a  book,  —  it  is  quite  a  curiosity !  Is  he 
clever  ?  " 

"Very,  sir,"  said  the  landlady,  somewhat  sharply; 
"  but  it  is  your  name,  not  his,  that  he  wishes  to  put  into 
his  book." 

"  Mine !  "  said  the  youth ,  who  appeared  to  have  been 
seeking  to  gain  time  in  order  to  answer  a  query  which 
most  men  find  requires  very  little  deliberation,  — 
"  mine,  you  say;  my  name  is  Linden,  Clarence  Linden, 
—  you  understand  ?  " 

"  What   a   pretty    name!  "    thought    the    landlady's 


40  THE   DISOWNED. 

daughter,  who  was  listening;- at  the  keyhole;  "but  how 
could  he  admire  that  odious  cap  of  Ma's!  " 

"And  now,  hindhidy,  I  wish  you  vvoukl  send  up  my 
boxes;  and  get  me  a  newspaper,  if  you  please." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  landlady,  and  she  rose  to  retire. 

"  I  do  not  think,"  said  the  youth  to  himself,  "  that 
I  could  have  hit  on  a  prettier  name,  —  and  so  novel  a 
one  too!  Clarence  Linden, —  why,  if  I  were  that  pretty 
girl  at  the  bar,  I  could  fall  in  love  with  the  very  words. 
Shakespeare  was  quite  wrong  when  he  said, — 

'  A  rose  by  any  other  name  would  smell  as  sweet. 

A  rose  by  aivj  name  would  not  smell  as  sweet ;  if  a  rose's 
name  was  Jeremiah  Bossolton,  for  instance,  it  would  not, 
to  my  nerves,  at  least,  smell  of  anything  but  an  apothe- 
cary's shop!  " 

When  Mordaunt  called  the  next  morning,  he  found 
Clarence  much  better,  and  carelessly  turning  over  va- 
rious books,  part  of  the  contents  of  the  luggage  super- 
scribed C.  L.  A  book  of  whatever  description  was 
among  the  few  companions  for  whom  Mordaunt  had 
neither  fastidiousness  nor  reserve ;  and  the  sympathy  of 
taste  between  him  and  the  sufferer  gave  rise  to  a  conver- 
sation less  cold  and  commonplace  than  it  might  other- 
wise have  been.  And  when  Mordaunt,  after  a  stay  of 
some  length,  rose  to  depart,  he  pressed  Linden  to  return 
his  visit  before  he  left  that  part  of  the  country ;  his 
place,  he  added,  was  only  about  live  miles  distant  from 

W .     Linden,  greatly  interested  in  his  visitor,  was 

not  slow  in  accepting  the  invitation;  and,  perhaps  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  Mordaunt  was  shaking  hands 
with  a  stranger  he  had  only  known  two  days. 


THE   DISOWNED.  41 


CHAPTER  VI. 

While  yet  a  child,  aud  loug  before  his  time, 
He  had  perceived  the  presence  aud  the  power 
Of  greatness. 

But  eagerly  he  read,  aud  read  again. 

Yet  still  uppermost 
Nature  was  at  his  heart,  as  if  he  felt, 
Though  yet  he  knew  not  how,  a  wasting  power 
In  all  things  that  from  her  sweet  influence 
Might  seek  to  wean  him.     Therefore  with  her  hues, 
Her  forms,  aud  with  the  spirit  of  her  form.s, 
He  clothed  the  nakedness  of  austere  truth. 

Wordsworth. 

Algernon  Mordaunt  was  the  last  son  of  an  old  and 
honorable  race,  which  had,  centuries  back,  numbered 
princes  in  its  line.  His  parents  had  had  many  children, 
but  all  (save  Algernon,  the  youngest)  died  in  their  in- 
fancy. His  mother  perished  in  giving  him  birth.  Con- 
stitutional infirmity,  and  the  care  of  mercenary  nurses, 
contributed  to  render  Algernon  a  weakly  and  delicate 
child :  hence  came  a  taste  for  loneliness  and  a  passion 
for  study;  and  from  these  sprang,  on  tlie  one  hand,  the 
fastidiousness  and  reserve  which  render  us  apparently 
unamiable,  and,  on  the  other,  the  loftiness  of  spirit  and 
the  kindness  of  heart,  which  are  the  best  and  earliest 
gifts  of  literature,  and  more  than  counterbalance  our 
deficiencies  in  the  "  minor  morals  "  due  to  society  by 
their  tendency  to  increase  our  attention  to  the  greater 
ones  belonging  to  mankind.      Mr.   Mordaunt  was  a  man 


42  THE    DISOWN F.D. 

of  luxurious  habits  and  gambling  propensities.  Wedded 
to  London,  he  left  the  house  of  his  ancestors  to  moulder 
into  desertion  and  decay;  but  to  this  home  Algernon 
was  constantly  consigned  during  his  vacations  from 
school;  and  its  solitude  and  cheerlessness  gave  to  a 
disposition  naturally  melancholy  and  thoughtful,  those 
colors  which  subsequent  events  were  calculated  to  deepen, 
not  efface. 

Truth  obliges  us  to  state,  despite  our  partiality  to 
Mordaunt,  that  when  he  left  his  school,  after  a  residence 
of  six  years,  it  was  with  the  bitter  distinction  of  having 
been  the  most  iinpopular  boy  in  it.  Why,  nobody  could 
exactly  explain,  for  his  severest  enemies  could  not  accuse 
him  of  ill-nature,  cowardice,  or  avarice,  and  these  make 
the  three  capital  offences  of  a  schoolljoy ;  but  Algernon 
Mordaunt  had  already  acquired  the  knowledge  of  him- 
self, and  could  explain  the  cause,  though  with  a  bitter 
and  swelling  heart.  His  ill  health,  his  long  residence 
at  home,  his  unfriended  and  almost  orphan  situation,  his 
early  habits  of  solitude  and  reserve, —  all  these,  so  calcu- 
lated to  make  the  spirit  shrink  within  itself,  made  him, 
on  his  entrance  at  school,  if  not  unsocial,  appear  so. 
This  was  the  primary  reason  of  his  unpopularity;  the 
second  was  that  he  perceived,  for  he  was  sensitive  (and 
consequently  acute)  to  the  extreme,  the  misfortune  of 
his  manner,  and  in  his  wish  to  rectify  it,  it  became 
doubly  unprepossessing;  to  reserve,  it  now  added  embar- 
rassment,—  to  coldness  gloom;  and  the  pain  he  felt  in 
addressing  or  being  addressed  by  another,  was  naturally 
and  necessarily  reciprocal,  for  the  effects  of  sympathy 
are  nowhere  so  wonderful,  yet  so  invisible,  as  in  the 
manners. 

l>y  degrees  he  shunned  the  intercourse  which  had  for 
him  nothing  but  distress,  and  his  volatile  acquaintances 


THE   DISOWNED.  43 

were  perhaps  the  first  to  set  him  the  example.  Often  in 
his  solitary  walks  he  stopped  afar  off  to  gaze  upon  the 
sports,  which  none  ever  solicited  him  to  share ;  and  as 
the  shout  of  laughter  and  of  happy  hearts  came,  peal 
after  peal,  upon  his  ear,  he  turned  enviously,  yet  not 
malignantly  away  with  tears,  which  not  all  his  pride 
could  curb,  and  muttered  to  himself,  "  And  these,  these 
hate  me !  " 

There  are  two  feelings  common  to  all  high  or  affec- 
tionate natures :  that  of  extreme  susceptibility  to  opinion, 
and  that  of  extreme  bitterness  at  its  injustice.  These 
feelings  were  Mordaunt's;  but  the  keen  edge  which  one 
blow  injures,  the  repetition  blunts;  and,  by  little  and 
little,  Algernon  became  not  only  accustomed,  but,  as  he 
persuaded  himself,  indifferent  to  his  want  of  popularity. 
His  step  grew  more  lofty,  and  his  address  more  collected, 
and  that  which  was  once  diffidence  gradually  hardened 
into  pride. 

His  residence  at  the  university  was  neither  without 
honor  nor  profit.  A  college  life  was  then,  as  now,  either 
the  most  retired  or  the  most  social  of  all  others :  we  need 
scarcely  say  which  it  was  to  Mordaunt;  but  his  was  the 
age  when  solitude  is  desirable,  and  when  the  closet  forms 
the  mind  better  than  the  world.  Driven  upon  itself,  his 
intellect  became  inquiring,  and  its  resources  profound; 
admitted  to  their  inmost  recesses,  he  revelled  among  the 
treasures  of  ancient  lore,  and  in  his  dreams  of  the 
Nymph  and  Xa'iad,  or  his  researches  after  truth  in  the 
deep  wells  of  the  Stagyrite  or  the  golden  fountains  of 
Plato,  he  forgot  the  loneliness  of  his  lot,  and  exhausted 
the  hoarded  enthusiasm  of  his  soul. 

But  his  mind,  rather  thoughtful  than  imaginative, 
found  no  idol  like  "  Divine  Philosophy. "  It  delighted 
to  plunge  itself  into  the  mazes  of  metaphysical  investi- 


44  THE    DISOWNED. 

gation,  to  trace  the  springs  of  the  intellect,  to  connect 
the  arcana  of  the  universe,  to  descend  into  the  darkest 
caverns,  or  to  wind  through  the  minutest  mysteries  of 
nature,  and  rise,  step  l)y  step,  to  that  arduous  elevation 
on  which  thouglit  stands  dizzy  and  confused,  looking  be- 
neath upon  a  clouded  earth,  and  above,  upon  an  un- 
fathomable heaven. 

Earely  wandering  from  his  chamber,  known  personally 
to  few,  and  intimately  by  none,  Algernon  yet  left  be- 
hind him  at  the  university  the  most  remarkable  reputa- 
tion of  his  day.  He  had  obtained  some  of  the  highest  of 
academical  honors,  and,  by  that  proverbial  process  of 
wilgar  minds  which  ever  frames  the  magnificent  from  the 
unknown,  —  the  seclusion  in  Avhich  he  lived,  and  the 
recondite  nature  of  his  favorite  pursuits,  attached  to  his 
name  a  still  greater  celebrity  and  interest  than  all  the 
orthodox  and  regular  dignities  he  had  acquired.  There 
are  few  men  who  do  not  console  themselves  for  not  being 
generally  loved,  if  they  can  reasonably  hope  that  they 
are  generally  esteemed.  Mordaunt  had  now  grown 
reconciled  to  himself  and  to  his  kind.  He  had  opened 
to  his  interest  a  Avorld  in  his  own  breast,  and  it  consoled 
him  for  his  mortification  in  the  world  without.  But, 
better  than  this,  his  habits  as  well  as  studies  had  strength- 
ened the  principles  and  confirmed  the  nobility  of  his 
mind.  He  was  not,  it  is  true,  more  kind,  more  benevo- 
lent, more  upright  tlian  before;  but  those  virtues  now 
emanated  from  principle,  not  emotion:  and  principle  to 
the  mind  is  what  a  free  constitution  is  to  a  people; 
without  that  principle,  or  that  free  constitution,  the  one 
may  be  for  the  moment  as  good,  the  other  as  happy,  but 
we  cannot  tell  how  long  the  goodness  and  the  happiness 
will  continue. 

On  leaving  the  university,  his  father  sent  for  him  to 


THE    DISOWNED.  45 

London.  He  stayed  there  a  short  time,  and  mingled 
partially  in  its  festivities;  but  the  pleasures  of  English 
dissipation  have  for  a  century  been  the  same,  heartless 
without  gayety,  and  dull  without  refinement.  Nor 
could  Mordaunt,  the  most  fastidious  yet  warm-hearted 
of  human  beings,  reconcile  either  his  tastes  or  his  affec- 
tions to  the  cold  insipidities  of  patrician  society.  His 
father's  habits  and  evident  distresses  deepened  his 
disgust  to  his  situation;  for  the  habits  were  incurable, 
and  the  distresses  increasing,  and  nothing  but  a  circum- 
stance, which  Mordaunt  did  not  then  understand,  pre- 
vented the  final  sale  of  an  estate,  already  little  better 
than  a  pompous  encumbrance. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  the  half -painful,  half-pleasur- 
able sensation,  with  which  we  avoid  contemplating  a 
ruin  we  cannot  prevent,  that  Mordaunt  set  out  upon  that 
Continental  tour  deemed  then  so  necessary  a  part  of 
education.  His  father,  on  taking  leave  of  him,  seemed 
deeply  affected.  "  Go,  my  son ,"  said  he ;  "  may  God  bless 
you,  and  not  punish  me  too  severely.  I  have  wronged 
you  deeply,  and  I  cannot  bear  to  look  upon  your  face." 

To  these  words  Algernon  attached  a  general,  but  they 
cloaked  a  peculiar  meaning;  in  three  years  he  returned 
to  England,  —  his  father  had  been  dead  some  months, 
and  the  signification  of  his  parting  address  was  already 
deciphered ;  but  of  this  hereafter. 

In  his  travels,  Mordaunt  encountered  an  Englishman, 
whose  name  I  will  not  yet  mention,  a  person  of  great 
reputed  wealth,  a  merchant,  yet  a  man  of  pleasure,  a 
voluptuary  in  life,  yet  a  saint  in  reputation,  —  or,  to 
abstain  from  the  antithetical  analysis  of  a  character, 
which  will  not  be  corporeally  presented  to  the  reader, 
till  our  tale  is  considerably  advanced,  — one  who  drew 
from  nature  a  sinrrular  combination  of  shrewd  but  false 


46  THE   DISOWNED. 

conclusions,  and  a  peculiar  philosophj',  destined  here- 
after to  contrast  the  colors,  and  prove  tlie  practical  utility 
of  that  which  was  espoused  by  Mordaunt. 

There  can  be  no  education  in  whicli  the  lessons  of  the 
world  do  not  form  a  share.  Experience,  in  expanding 
Algernon's  powers,  had  ripened  his  virtues.  Nor  had 
the  years  which  had  converted  knowledge  into  wisdom 
failed  in  imparting  polish  to  refinement.  His  person 
had  acquired  a  greater  grace,  and  his  manners  an  easier 
dignity  than  before.  His  noble  and  generous  mind  had 
worked  its  impress  upon  his  features,  and  his  mien;  and 
those  who  could  overcome  the  first  coldness  and  shrink- 
ing hauteur  of  his  address,  found  it  required  no  minute 
examination  to  discover  the  real  expression  of  the  elo- 
quent eye  and  the  kindling  lip. 

He  had  not  been  long  returned,  before  he  found  two 
enemies  to  his  tranquillity,  —  the  one  was  love,  the 
other  appeared  in  the  more  formidable  guise  of  a  claim- 
ant to  his  estate.  Before  Algernon  was  aware  of  the 
nature  of  the  latter,  he  went  to  consult  with  his  lawyer. 

"  If  the  claim  be  just,  I  shall  not,  of  course,  proceed 
to  law,"  said  Mordaunt. 

"  But  without  the  estate,  sir,  you  have  nothing!  " 

"  True,"  said  Algernon,  calmly. 

But  tlie  claim  was  not  just,  and  to  law  he  went. 

In  tliis  lawsuit,  however,  he  had  one  assistant  in  an 
old  relation  who  had  seen,  indeed,  but  very  little  of  him, 
but  who  compassionated  his  circumstances,  and,  above 
all,  hated  his  opponent.  This  relation  was  rich  and 
childless;  and  there  were  not  wanting  those  Avho  pre- 
dicted that  his  money  M'ould  ultimately  discharge  the 
mortgages  and  repair  the  house  of  the  young  representa- 
tive of  the  Mordatuit  honors.  But  the  old  kinsman  was 
obstinate,  self-willed,  and  under  the  absolute  dominion 


THE   DISOWNED.  47 

of  patrician  pride;  and  it  was  by  no  means  improbalDle 
that  the  independence  of  Mordaunt's  character  woidd 
soon  create  a  disunion  between  them ,  by  clashing  against 
the  peculiarities  of  his  relation's  temper. 

It  was  a  clear  and  sunny  morning  when  Linden,  tol- 
erably recovered  of  his  hurt,  set  out  upon  a  sober  and 
aged  pony,  which,  after  some  natural  pangs  of  shame, 
he  had  hired  of  his  landlord,  to  Mordaunt  Court. 

Mordaunt's  house  was  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  wild 
and  extensive  park,  surrounded  with  woods,  and  inter- 
spersed with  trees  of  the  stateliest  growth,  now  scattered 
into  irregular  groups,  now  marshalled  into  sweeping 
avenues;  while,  ever  and  anon.  Linden  caught  glimpses 
of  a  rapid  and  brawling  rivulet,  which,  in  many  a  slight 
but  sounding  waterfall,  gave  a  music  strange  and  spirit- 
like to  the  thick  copses  and  forest  glades  through  which 
it  went  exulting  on  its  way.  The  deer  lay  half  con- 
cealed by  the  fern  among  which  they  couched,  turning 
their  stately  crests  towards  the  stranger,  but  not  stirring 
from  their  rest;  while  from  the  summit  of  beeches, 
which  would  have  shamed  the  pavilion  of  Tityrus,  the 
rooks  —  those  monks  of  the  feathered  people  —  were  loud 
in  their  confused,  but  not  displeasing,  confabulations. 

As  Linden  approached  the  house,  he  was  struck  with 
the  melancholy  air  of  desolation  which  spread  over 
and  around  it :  fragments  of  stone,  above  Avhich  climbed 
the  rank  weed,  insolently  proclaiming  the  triumph  of 
nature's  meanest  offspring  over  the  wrecks  of  art;  a 
moat  dried  up;  a  railing,  once  of  massy  gilding,  in- 
tended to  fence  a  lofty  terrace  on  the  right  from  the 
incursions  of  the  deer,  but  which,  shattered  and  de- 
cayed, now  seemed  to  ask,  with  the  satirist,  — 

"  To  what  end  did  our  lavish  ancestors 
Erect  of  old  these  stately  piles  of  ours  ? " 


48  THE   DISOWNED. 

—  a  chapel  on  the  left,  perfectly  in  ruins,  —  all  appeared 
strikingly  to  denote  that  time  had  outstripped  fortune, 
and  that  the  years,  which  alike  hallow  and  destroy,  had 
broken  the  consequence,  in  deepening  tlie  antiquity  of 
the  House  of  Mordauut. 

The  building  itself  agreed  but  too  well  with  the 
tokens  of  decay  around  it:  most  of  the  windows  were 
shut  up,  and  the  shutters  of  dark  oak,  richly  gilt,  con- 
trasted forcibly  with  the  shattered  panes  and  mouldered 
framing  of  the  glass.  It  was  a  house  of  irregular  archi- 
tecture. Originally  built  in  the  fifteenth  century,  it 
had  received  its  last  improvement,  with  the  most  lavish 
expense,  during  the  reign  of  Anne ;  and  it  united  the 
Gallic  magnificence  of  the  latter  period  with  the  strength 
and  grandeur  of  the  former.  It  was  in  a  great  part 
overgrown  with  ivy,  and,  where  that  insidious  orna- 
ment had  not  reached,  the  signs  of  decay,  and  even 
ruin,  were  fully  visible.  The  sun  itself,  bright  and 
cheering  as  it  shone  over  nature,  making  the  green  sod 
glow  like  emeralds,  and  the  rivulet  flash  in  its  beam, 
like  one  of  those  streams  of  real  light  imagined  by 
Swedenborg  in  his  visions  of  heaven,  and  clothing  tree 
and  fell,  brake  and  hillock,  with  the  lavish  hues  of 
infant  summer,  —  the  sun  itself  only  made  more  deso- 
late, because  more  conspicuous,  the  venerable  fabric, 
which  the  youthful  traveller  frequently  paused  more 
accurately  to  survey;  and  its  laughing  and  sportive 
beams,  playing  over  chink  and  crevice,  seemed  almost 
as  insolent  and  untimeous  as  the  mirth  of  the  young, 
mocking  the  silent  grief  of  some  gray-headed  and  solitary 
mourner. 

Clarence  had  now  reached  the  porch,  and  the  sound 
of  the  shrill  bell  he  touched  rang  witli  a  strange  note 
through  the  general  stillness  of  the  place.     A  single 


THE   DISOWNED.  49 

servant  appeared,  and  ushered  Clarence  through  a  screen 
hall,  hung  round  with  relics  of  armor,  and  ornamented 
on  the  side  opposite  the  music  gallery  with  a  solitary 
picture  of  gigantic  size,  exhibiting  the  full  length  of 
the  gaunt  person  and  sable  steed  of  that  Sir  Piers  de 
Mordaunt  who  had  so  signalized  himself  in  the  field  in 
which  Henry  of  Richmond  changed  his  coronet  for  a 
crown.  Through  this  hall  Clarence  Avas  led  to  a  small 
chamber  clothed  with  uncouth  and  tattered  arras,  in 
which,  seemingly  immersed  in  papers,  he  found  the 
owner  of  the  domain. 

"Your  studies,"  said  Linden,  after  the  salutations  of 
the  day,  "  seem  to  harmonize  with  the  venerable  an- 
tiquity of  your  home ;  "  and  he  pointed  to  the  crabbed 
characters  and  faded  ink  of  the  papers  on  the  table. 

"So  they  ought,"  answered  Mordaunt,  with  a  faint 
smile;  "  for  they  are  called  from  their  quiet  archives  in 
order  to  support  my  struggle  for  that  home.  But  I  fear 
the  struggle  is  in  vain,  and  that  the  quibbles  of  law 
will  transfer  into  other  hands  a  possession  I  am  foolish 
enough  to  value  the  more  from  my  inability  to  main- 
tain it." 

Something  of  this  Clarence  had  before  learned  from 
the  communicative  gossip  of  his  landlady;  and,  less 
desirous  to  satisfy  his  curiosity  than  to  lead  the  con- 
versation from  a  topic  which  he  felt  must  be  so  unwel- 
come to  Mordaunt,  he  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  state 
apartments  of  the  house.  With  something  of  shame 
at  the  neglect  they  had  necessarily  experienced,  and 
something  of  pride  at  the  splendor  which  no  neglect 
could  efface,  Mordaunt  yielded  to  the  request,  and  led 
the  way  up  a  staircase  of  black  oak,  the  walls  and  ceil- 
ing of  which  were  covered  with  frescos  of  Italian  art, 
to  a  suite  of  apartments  in  which  time  and  dust  seemed 


60  THE   DISOWNED. 

the  only  tenants.  Lingeringly  did  Clarence  gaze  upon 
the  rich  velvet,  the  costly  mirrors,  the  motley  paintings 
of  a  hundred  ancestors,  and  the  antique  cabinets,  con- 
taining, among  the  most  hoarded  relics  of  the  Mordaunt 
race,  curiosities  which  the  hereditary  enthusiasm  of  a 
line  of  cavaliers  had  treasured  as  the  most  sacred  of 
heirlooms,  and  which,  even  to  the  philosophical  mind 
of  Mordaunt,  possessed  a  value  he  did  not  seek  too 
minutely  to  analyze.  Here  was  the  goblet  from  which 
the  first  prince  of  Tudor  had  drunk  after  the  field  of 
Bosworth.  Here  the  ring  with  which  the  chivalrous 
Francis  I.  had  rewanled  a  signal  feat  of  that  famous 
Robert  de  Mordaunt,  who,  as  a  poor  but  adventurous 
cadet  of  the  house,  had  brought  to  the  "  first  gentleman 
of  France  "  the  assistance  of  his  sword.  Here  was  the 
glove  which  Sir  Walter  had  received  from  the  royal 
hand  of  Elizabeth,  and  worn  in  the  lists  upon  a  crest 
which  the  lance  of  no  antagonist  in  that  kniglitly  court 
could  abase.  And  here,  more  sacred  than  all,  because 
connected  with  the  memory  of  misfortune,  was  a  small 
box  of  silver,  which  the  last  king  of  a  fated  line  had 
placed  in  the  hand  of  the  gray -headed  descendant  of  that 
Sir  Walter  after  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  saying,  "  Keep 
this,  Sir  Everard  Mordaunt,  for  the  sake  of  one  who 
has  purchased  the  luxury  of  gratitude  at  the  price  of  a 
throne !  " 

As  Clarence  glanced  from  these  relics  to  the  figure  of 
Mordaunt,  who  stood  at  a  little  distance  leaning  against 
the  window,  with  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  and  with 
eyes  abstractedly  wandering  over  the  noble  woods  and 
extended  park  which  spread  below,  he  could  not  but 
feel  that  if  birth  had  indeed  the  power  of  setting  its 
seal  upon  the  form,  it  was  never  more  conspicuous  than 
in  the  broad  front  and  lofty  air  of  the  last  descendant 


THE   DISOWNED.  51 

of  the  race  by  whose  memorials  he  was  surrounded. 
Touched  by  the  fallen  fortunes  of  INIordaunt,  and  inter- 
ested by  the  uncertainty  which  the  chances  of  law  threw 
over  his  future  fate,  Clarence  could  not  resist  exclaim- 
ing, with  some  warmth  and  abruptness,  — 

"  And  by  what  subterfuge,  or  cavil,  does  the  present 
claimant  of  these  estates  hope  to  dislodge  their  rightful 
possessor  1  " 

"Why,"  answered  Mordaunt,  "it  is  a  long  story  in 
detail,  but  brieily  told  in  epitome.  My  father  was  a 
man  whose  habits  greatly  exceeded  his  fortune,  and  a 
few  months  after  his  death,  Mr.  Vavasour,  a  distant 
relation,  produced  a  paper,  by  which  it  appeared  that 
my  father  had,  for  a  certain  sum  of  ready  money,  dis- 
posed of  his  estates  to  this  Mr.  Vavasour,  upon  condi- 
tion that  they  should  not  be  claimed,  nor  the  treaty 
divulged,  till  after  his  death;  the  reason  for  this  proviso 
seems  to  have  been  the  shame  my  father  felt  for  his 
exchange,  and  his  fear  of  the  censures  of  that  world  to 
which  he  was  always  devoted." 

"  But  how  unjust  to  you!  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Not  so  much  as  it  seems,"  said  Mordaunt,  deprecat- 
ingly;  "for  I  was  then  but  a  sickly  boy,  and,  according 
to  the  physicians,  and  I  sincerely  believe  according  also 
to  my  poor  father's  belief,  almost  certain  of  a  premature 
death.  In  that  case  Vavasour  would  have  been  the 
nearest  heir;  and  this  expectancy,  by  the  by,  joined  to 
the  mortgages  on  the  property,  made  the  sum  given 
ridiculously  disproportioned  to  the  value  of  the  estate. 
I  must  confess  that  the  news  came  upon  me  like  a  thun- 
derbolt. I  should  have  yielded  up  possession  immedi- 
ately, but  was  informed  by  my  lawyers  that  my  father 
had  no  legal  right  to  dispose  of  the  property ;  the  dis- 
cussion of  that  right  forms  the  ground  of  the  present 


52  THE   DISOWNED. 

lawsuit.  But,"  continued  Mordaunt,  proudly,  yet 
nioiirufully,  "  I  am  prepared  for  the  worst;  if,  indeed, 
I  sliould  call  that  the  worst  which  can  affect  neither 
intellect,  nor  health,  nor  character,  nor  conscience." 

Clarence  was  silent,  and  j\Iordaunt,  after  a  brief  pause, 
once  more  resumed  his  guidance.  Their  tour  ended  in 
a  large  library  filled  with  books,  and  this,  Mordaunt 
informed  his  guest,  was  his  chosen  fitting-room. 

An  old  carved  table  was  covered  Avith  works  which 
for  the  most  part  possessed  for  the  young  mind  of  Clar- 
ence, more  accustomed  to  imagine  than  reflect,  but  a 
very  feeble  attraction;  on  looking  over  them,  he,  how- 
ever, found,  half  hid  by  a  huge  folio  of  Hobbes,  and 
another  of  Locke,  a  volume  of  Milton's  poems:  this 
paved  the  way  to  a  conversation,  in  which  both  had  an 
equal  interest;  for  both  were  enthusiastic  in  the  char- 
acter and  genius  of  that  wonderful  man,  for  whom  "  tlie 
divine  and  solemn  countenance  of  Freedom  "  was  dearer 
than  the  light  of  day,  and  whose  solitary  spell,  accom- 
plishing wliat  the  whole  family  of  earth  once  vainly 
began  upon  the  plain  of  Shinar,  has  built  of  materials 
more  imperishable  than  "  slime  and  brick,"  "  a  city  and 
a  tower  whose  summit  has  reached  to  heaven. " 

It  was  with  mutual  satisfaction  that  Mordaunt  and 
his  guest  continued  their  commune  till  the  hour  of 
dinner  was  announced  to  them  by  a  bell,  which,  for- 
merly intended  as  an  alarm,  now  served  the  peaceful 
purpose  of  a  more  agreeable  summons. 

The  same  servant  who  had  admitted  Clarence  ushered 
them  through  the  great  hall  into  the  dining-room,  and 
was  their  solitary  attendant  during  their  repast. 

The  temper  of  Mordaunt  was  essentially  grave  and 
earnest,  and  his  conversation  almost  invariably  took  the 
tone  of  his  mind;  this  made  their  conference  turn  upon 


THE   DISOWNED.  53 

less  minute  and  commonplace  topics  than  one  between 
such  new  acquaintances,  especially  of  different  ages, 
usually  does. 

"  You  will  positively  go  to  London  to-morrow,  then?  " 
said  Mordaunt,  as  the  servant,  removing  the  appurte- 
nances of  dinner,  left  them  alone. 

"  Positively,"  answered  Clarence.  "  I  go  there  to 
carve  my  own  fortunes,  and,  to  say  truth,  I  am  impa- 
tient to  begin." 

Mordaunt  looked  earnestly  at  the  frank  face  of  the 
speaker,  and  wondered  that  one  so  young,  so  well  edu- 
cated, and,  from  his  air  and  manner,  evidently  of  gentle 
blood,  should  appear  so  utterly  thrown  upon  his  own 
resources. 

"  I  wish  you  success,"  said  he,  after  a  pause;  "  and  it 
is  a  noble  part  of  the  organization  of  this  world,  that  by 
increasing  those  riches  which  are  beyond  fortune,  we  do 
in  general  take  the  surest  method  of  obtaining  those 
which  are  in  its  reach." 

Clarence  looked  inquiringly  at  Mordaunt,  who,  per- 
ceiving it,  continued,  "  I  see  that  I  should  explain  my- 
self further.  I  Avill  do  so  by  using  the  thoughts  of  a 
mind  not  the  least  beautiful  and  accomplished  which 
this  country  has  produced.  *  Of  all  which  belongs  to 
us,'  said  Bolingbroke,  '  the  least  valuable  parts  can  alone 
fall  under  the  will  of  others.  Whatever  is  best  is 
safest,  lies  out  of  the  reach  of  human  power,  can 
neither  be  given  nor  taken  away.  Such  is  this  great 
and  beautiful  work  of  nature,  the  world.  Such  is  the 
mind  of  man,  which  contemplates  and  admires  the  world 
whereof  it  makes  the  noblest  part.  These  are  insepar- 
ably ours,  and  as  long  as  we  remain  in  one  we  shall 
enjoy  the  other. '  " 

"  Beautiful,  indeed!  "  exclaimed  Clarence,  with  the 


54  THE   DISOWNED. 

enthusiasm  of  a  young  and  pure  heart,  to  which  every 
loftier  sentiment  is  always  beautiful. 

"And  true  as  beautiful!"  said  Mordaunt.  "Nor  is 
this  all,  for  the  mind  can  even  dispense  with  that  world, 
*  of  which  it  forms  a  part,'  if  we  can  create  within  it  a 
world  still  more  inaccessible  to  chance.  But  (and  I 
now  return  to  and  explain  my  former  observation)  the 
means  by  which  we  can  elfect  this  peculiar  world,  can 
be  rendered  equally  subservient  to  our  advancement  and 
prosperity  in  that  which  we  share  in  common  with  our 
race;  for  the  riches,  which  by  the  aid  of  wisdom  we 
heap  up  in  the  storehouses  of  the  mind,  are,  though  not 
the  only,  the  most  customary  coin  by  which  external  pros- 
perity is  bought.  So  that  the  philosophy  which  can  alone 
give  independence  to  ourselves,  becomes,  under  the  name 
of  honesty,  the  best  policy  in  commerce  with  our  kind." 

In  conversation  of  this  nature,  which  the  sincerity 
and  lofty  enthusiasm  of  Mordaunt  rendered  interesting 
to  Clarence,  despite  the  distaste  to  the  serious  so  ordi- 
nary to  youth,  the  hours  passed  on,  till  the  increasing 
evening  warned  Linden  to  depart. 

"  Adieu !  "  said  he  to  Mordaunt.  "  I  know  not  when 
we  shall  meet  again,  but  if  we  ever  do,  I  will  make  it 
my  boast,  whether  in  prosperity  or  misfortune,  not  to 
have  forgotten  the  pleasure  I  have  this  day  enjoyed!  " 

Eeturning  his  guest's  farewell  with  a  warmth  unusual 
to  his  manner,  Mordaunt  followed  him  to  the  door,  and 
saw  him  depart. 

Fate  ordained  that  they  should  pursue,  in  very  differ- 
ent paths,  their  several  destinies ;  nor  did  it  afford  them 
an  opportunity  of  meeting  again,  till  years  and  events 
had  severely  tried  the  virtue  of  one,  and  materially 
altered  the  prospects  of  the  other. 

The  next  morning  Clarence  Linden  was  on  his  road 
to  London. 


THE  DISOWNED.  55 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  cries  Jones,  "  thou  art  a  very  odd  fellow,  and  I 
like  thy  humor  extremely."  — Fiklding. 

The  rumbling  and  jolting  vehicle  which  conveyed 
Clarence  to  the  metropolis  stopped  at  the  door  of  a 
tavern  in  Holborn,  Linden  was  ushered  into  a  close 
coffee-room  and  presented  with  a  bill  of  fare.  While  he 
was  deliberatmg  between  the  respective  merits  of  mutton- 
chops  and  beefsteaks,  a  man  with  a  brown  coat,  brown 
breeches,  and  a  brown  wig,  walked  into  the  room;  he 
cast  a  curious  glance  at  Clarence,  and  then  turned  to  the 
waiter. 

"  A  pair  of  slippers !  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  "  and  the  waiter  disappeared. 

"  I  suppose, "  said  the  brown  gentleman  to  Clarence,  — 
"  I  suppose,  sir,  you  are  the  gentleman  just  come  to 
town  ?  " 

"  You  are  right,  sir, "  said  Clarence. 

"  Very  well,  —  very  Avell,  indeed, "  resumed  the  stran- 
ger, musingly.  "  I  took  the  liberty  of  looking  at  your 
boxes  in  the  passage;  I  knew  a  lady,  sir,  a  relation  of 
yours,  I  think." 

"  Sir !  "  exclaimed  Linden,  coloring  violently. 

"  At  least,  I  suppose,  for  her  name  Avas  just  the  same 
as  yours,  only,  at  least,  one  letter  difference  between 
them:  yours  is  Linden,  I  see,  sir;  hers  was  Mlnden. 
Am  I  right  in  my  conjecture,  that  you  are  related  to 
her?" 


56  THE  DISo^v^•ED. 

"  Sir, "  answered  Clarence,  gravely,  "  notwithstanding 
the  similarity  of  our  names,  we  are  not  related. " 

"  Very  extraordinary, "  replied  the  stranger. 

"  Very, "  repeated  Linden. 

"  I  had  the  honor,  sir, "  said  the  brown  gentleman, 
"  to  make  Mrs.  Mmden  many  presents  of  value,  and  I 
should  have  been  very  happy  to  have  obliged  you  in  the 
same  manner,  had  you  been  any  way  connected  with 
that  worthy   gentlewoman." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Linden,  — "  you  are  very 
kind;  and  since  such  were  your  intentions,  I  believe  I 
must  have  been  connected  with  Mrs.  Minden.  At  all 
events,  as  you  justly  observe,  there  is  only  the  difference 
of  a  letter  between  our  names :  a  discrepancy  too  slight, 
I  am  sure,  to  alter  your  benevolent  intentions." 

Here  the  waiter  returned  with  the  slippers. 

The  stranger  slowly  unbuttoned  his  gaiters.  "  Sir, " 
said  he  to  Linden,  "  we  will  renew  our  conversation 
presently. " 

No  sooner  had  the  generous  friend  of  Mrs.  Minden 
deposited  his  feet  into  their  easy  tenements  than  he 
quitted  the  room. 

"  Pray, "  said  Linden  to  the  waiter,  when  he  had 
ordered  his  simple  repast,  "  who  is  that  gentleman  in 
brown  1  " 

"  Mv.  Brown, "  replied  the  waiter. 

"  And  who,  or  what  is  Mr.  Brown  1  "  asked  our  hero. 

Before  the  waiter  could  reply,  Mr.  Brown  returned 
with  a  large  bandbox,  carefully  enveloped  in  a  blue  hand- 
kerchief.    "  You  come  from ,  sir?  "  said  Mr.  Brown, 

quietly  seating  himself  at  the  same  table  as  Liuden. 

"No,  sir,  I  do  not." 

«  From ,  then  1  " 

"  No,  sir !  —  from  W ." 


THE   DISOWNED.  57 

""^ lay  —  ^vell,    I   know  a   lady   -with   a   name 

very  like  W (the  late  Lady  Waddilove)   extremely 

well.      I  made  her  some  valuable  presents,  —  her  lady- 
ship was  very  sensible  of  it." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  sir, "  replied  Clarence ;  "  such  in- 
stances of  general  beneficence   rarely   occur!  " 

"  I  have  some  magnificent  relics  of  her  ladysliip  in 
this  box,"   returned   Mr.    Brown. 

"  Eeally !  then  she  was  no  less  generous  than  your- 
self, I  presume !  " 

"  Yes,  her  ladyship  teas  remarkably  generous.  About 
a  week  before  she  died  (the  late  Lady  Waddilove  was 
quite  sensible  of  her  danger)  she  called  me  to  her: 
'  Brown, '  said  she,  '  you  are  a  good  creature ;  I  have 
had  my  most  valuable  things  from  you.  I  am  not  un- 
grateful ;  I  will  leave  you  —  my  maid  !  She  is  as  clever  as 
you  are,  and  as  good.'  I  took  the  hint,  sir,  and  married. 
It  was  an  excellent  bargain.  My  wife  is  a  charming 
woman ;  she  entirely  fitted  up  Mrs.  Minden's  wardrobe, 
and  I  furnished  the  house.  IMrs.  Minden  was  greatly 
indebted  to  us." 

"  Heaven  help  me !  "  thought  Clarence,  "  the  man  is 
certainly  mad." 

The  waiter  entered  with  the  dinner ;  and  INfr.  Brown, 
who  seemed  to  have  a  delicate  aversion  to  any  conversa- 
tion in  the  presence  of  the  Ganymede  of  the  Holborn 
tavern,  immediately  ceased  his  commimications :  mean- 
while Clarence  took  the  opportunity  to  survey  him  more 
minutely  than  he  had  hitherto  done. 

His  new  acquaintance  was  in  age  about  forty-eight ;  m 
stature,  rather  imder  the  middle  height;  and  thin,  dried, 
withered,  yet  muscular  withal,  like  a  man  who,  in  stint- 
ing his  stomach  for  tlie  sake  of  economy,  does  not  the 
less  enjoy  the  power  of  undergoing  any  fatigue  or  exer- 


58  THE    DISOWNED. 

tion  tliat  an  object  of  adequate  importance  may  demand. 
We  have  said  already  that  he  was  attired,  like  twilight, 
"  in  a  suit  of  sober  brown ;  "  and  there  was  a  formality, 
a  precision,  and  a  cat-like  sort  of  cleanliness  in  his  garb 
which  savored  strongly  of  the  respectable  coxcombry  of 
the  counting-house.  His  face  was  lean,  it  is  true,  but 
not  emaciated;  and  his  complexion,  sallow  and  adust, 
harmonized  well  with  the  colors  of  his  clothing.  An 
eye  of  the  darkest  hazel,  sharp,  shrewd,  and  flashmg  at 
times,  especially  at  the  mention  of  the  euphonious  name 
of  Lady  Waddilove,  —  a  name  frequently  upon  the  lips 
of  the  inheritor  of  her  Abigail,  —  with  a  fire  that  might 
be  called  brilliant,  was  of  that  modest  species  which  can 
seldom  encounter  the  straightforward  glance  of  another; 
on  the  contrary,  it  seemed  restlessly  uneasy  in  any 
settled  place,  and  wandered  from  ceiling  to  floor,  and 
corner  to  corner,  with  an  inquisitive,  though  apparently 
careless  glance,  as  if  seeking  for  something  to  admire  or 
haply  to  appropriate;  it  also  seemed  to  be  the  especial 
care  of  Mr.  Brown  to  veil,  as  far  as  he  was  able,  the  vi- 
vacity of  his  looks  beneath  an  expression  of  open  and  un- 
heeding good-nature,  an  expression  strangely  enough  con- 
trasting with  the  closeness  and  sagacity  which  nature  had 
indelibly  stamped  upon  features  pointed,  aquiline,  and 
impressed  with  a  strong  mixture  of  the  Judaical  physi- 
ognomy. The  manner  and  bearing  of  this  gentleman 
partook  of  the  same  undecided  character  as  his  counte- 
nance :  they  seemed  to  be  struggling  between  civility  and 
importance ;  a  real  eagerness  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
the  person  he  addressed,  and  an  assumed  recklessness  of 
the  advantages  which  that  acquamtance  could  bestow. 
It  was  like  the  behavior  of  a  man  who  is  desirous  of 
having  the  best  possible  motives  imputed  to  him,  but  is 
fearful  lest  that  desire   should  not  be  utterly  fulfilled. 


THE   DISOWNED.  59 

At  the  first  glance  you  would  have  pledged  yourself  for 
his  respectability;  at  the  second,  you  would  have  half 
suspected  him  to  be  a  rogue;  and,  after  you  had  been 
half  an  hour  in  his  company,  you  would  confess  yourself 
in  the  obscurest  doubt  which  was  the  better  guess,  the 
first  or  the  last. 

"Waiter!  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  looking  enviously  at  the 
viands  upon  which  Linden,  having  satisfied  his  curiosity, 
was  now,  with  all  the  appetite  of  youth,  regaling  him- 
self, —  "waiter!" 

"Yes,  sir!  " 

"  Bring  me  a  sandwich,  and  —  and,  waiter,  see  that  I 
have  plenty  of  —  plenty  of  —  " 

"What,  sir?" 

"  Plenty  of  mustard,  waiter. 

"  Mustard  "  (and  here  Mr.  Brown  addressed  himself 
to  Clarence)  "  is  a  very  wonderful  assistance  to  the 
digestion.  By  the  by,  sir,  if  you  want  any  curiously 
fine  mustard,  I  can  procure  you  some  pots  quite  capital : 
a  great  favor,  thovxgh  —  they  were  smuggled  from  France 
especially  for  the  use  of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove. " 

"  Thank  you, "  said  Linden,  dryly ;  "  I  shall  be  very 
happy  to  accept  anythuig  you  may  Avish  to  ofi"er  me. " 

Mr.  Brown  took  a  pocketbook  from  his  pouch.  "  Six 
pots  of  mustard,  sir,  —  shall  I  say  six  ?  " 

"  As  many  as  you  please, "  replied  Clarence ;  and  Mr. 
Brown  wrote  down  "  Six  pots  of  French  mustard. " 

"  You  are  a  very  young  gentleman,  sir, "  said  Mr. 
Brown,  "  probably  intended  for  some  profession,  —  I 
don't  mean  to  be  impertinent,  but  if  I  can  be  of  any 
assistance  —  " 

"  You  can,  sir, "  replied  Linden,  "  and  immediately, 
—  have  the  kindness  to  ring  the  bell. " 

Mr.  Brown,  with  a  grave  smile,  did  as  he  was  desired; 


CO  THE  DISOWNED. 

tlie  waiter  re-entering,  and  receiving  a  whispered  order 
from  Clarence,  again  disappeared. 

"  What  profession  did  you  say,  sir  ?  "  renewed  Mr. 
Brown,  artfully. 

"  None !  "  replied  Linden. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  very  well  indeed.  Then  as  an  idle, 
independent  gentleman,  you  will  of  course  be  a  bit  of  a 
beau :  want  some  sliirts,  possibly ;  fme  cravats,  too,  — 
gentlemen  wear  a  particular  pattern  now:  gloves,  gold, 
or  shall  I  say  gilt  chain,  watch  and  seals,  a  ring  or  two, 
and  a  snuff-box  ?  " 

"Sir,  you  are  vastly  obligmg,"  said  Clarence,  in  un- 
disguised surprise. 

"  Not  at  all,  I  would  do  anything  for  a  relation  of  Mrs. 
Minden. "  The  waiter  re-entered :  "  Sir, "  said  he  to 
Linden,   "  your  room  is  quite  ready. " 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it, "  said  Clarence,  rising.  "  Mr. 
Brown,  I  have  the  honor  of  wishing  you  a  good 
evening. " 

"Stay,  sir, —  stay;  you  have  not  looked  into  these 
things  belonging  to  the  late  Lady  Waddilove." 

"  Another  time, "  said  Clarence,  hastily. 

"  To-morrow  at  ten  o'clock, "  mutteretl  Mr.  Brown. 

"  I  am  exceedingly  glad  I  have  got  rid  of  that  fellow, " 
said  Linden  to  himself,  as  he  stretched  his  limbs  in  his 
easy-cliair,  and  drank  off  the  last  glass  of  his  pint  of  port. 
"  If  I  have  not  already  seen,  I  have  already  guessed 
enough  of  the  world,  to  know  that  you  are  to  look  to 
your  pockets  when  a  man  offers  you  a  present ;  they  who 
*  give, '  also  '  take  away. '  So  here  I  am  in  London,  with 
an  order  for  £1000  in  my  purse,  the  wisdom  of  Dr.  Lati- 
nas  in  my  head,  and  the  health  of  eighteen  in  my  veins ; 
will  it  not  be  my  own  fault  if  I  do  not  both  enjoy  and 
make  myself  —  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  61 

And  then,  yielding  to  meditations  of  future  success, 
partaking  strongly  of  the  inexperienced  and  sanguine 
temperament  of  the  soliloquist,  Clarence  passed  the 
hours,  till  his  pillow  summoned  him  to  dreams  no  less 
ardent  and  perhaps  no  less  unreal. 


62  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

Oh  !  how  I  long  to  be  employed.  —  Ever//  Man  in  his  Humor. 

Clarence  was  sitting  the  next  morning  over  the  very 
unsatisfactory  breakfast  which  tea  made  out  of  broom- 
sticks, and  cream  out  of  chalk  (adulteration  thrived 
even  in  17 — ),  afforded,  when  the  waiter  threw  open 
the  door,  and  announced  Mr.  Brown. 

"Just  in  time,  sir,  you  perceive,"  said  Mr.  Brown; 
"I  am  punctuality  itself;  exactly  a  quarter  of  a  miiuite 
to  ten.  I  have  brought  you  the  pots  of  French  mus- 
tard, and  I  have  some  very  valuable  articles,  which  you 
miist  want  besides." 

"  Thank  you,  sir, "  said  Linden,  not  well  knowing 
what  to  say ;  and  Mr.  Brown,  untying  a  silk  handker- 
chief, produced  three  shirts,  two  pots  of  pomatum,  a 
tobacco-canister,  Avith  a  German  pipe,  four  pair  of  silk 
stockings,  two  gold  seals,  three  rings,  and  a  stuffed 
parrot ! 

"  Beautiful  articles  these,  sir, "  said  Mr.  BroAvn,  with 
a  snuffle  "  of  inward  sweetness  long  drawn  out, "  and 
expressive  of  great  admiration  of  his  offered  treasures, — 
"  beautiful  articles,  sir,  are  n't  they  ?  " 

"Very;  the  parrot  in  particular,"  said  Clarence. 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Brown;  "the  parrot  is  in- 
deed quite  a  jewel ;  it  belonged  to  the  late  Lady  Wad- 
dilove;  I  offer  it  to  you  with  considerable  regret, 
for  —  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  63 

"  Oh !  "  interrupted  Clarence,  "  pray  do  not  rob  your- 
self of  such  a  jewel,  it  really  is  of  no  use  to  me." 

"  I  know  that,  sir, —  I  know  that, "  replied  Mr.  Erown; 
"  but  it  will  be  of  use  to  your  friends ;  it  Avill  be  ines- 
timable to  any  old  aunt,  sir,  any  maiden  lady  living  at 
Hackney,  any  curious  elderly  gentleman  fond  of  a  knick- 
nack.  I  knew  you  would  know  some  one  to  send 
it  to  as  a  present,  even  though  you  should  not  want 
it  yourself." 

"  Bless  me !  "  thought  Linden,  "  was  there  ever  such 
generosity  1  Not  content  with  providing  for  my  wants, 
he  extends  his  liberality  even  to  any  possible  relations  I 
may  possess!  " 

Mr.  Brown  now  retied  "  the  beautiful  articles  "  in  his 
handkerchief.     "  Shall  I  leave  them,  sir  1  "  said  he. 

"  Why,  really, "  said  Clarence,  "  I  thought  yesterday 
that  you  were  in  jest;  but  you  must  be  aware  that  I 
cannot  accept  presents  from  any  gentleman  so  much  — 
so  much  a  stranger  to   me  as  you  are." 

"  No ,  sir,  I  am  aware  of  that, "  replied  Mr.  Brown ; 
"  and  in  order  to  remove  the  impleasantness  of  such  a 
feeling,  sir,  on  your  part,  —  merely  in  order  to  do  tliat,  I 
assure  you  with  no  other  view,  sir,  in  the  Avorld, —  I 
have  just  noted  down  the  articles  on  this  piece  of  paper; 
but,  as  you  will  perceive,  at  a  price  so  low  as  still  to 
make  them  actually  presents  in  every  thing  but  the 
name.  Oh,  sir,  I  perfectly  understand  your  delicacy, 
and  would  not  for  the  world  violate  it." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Brown  put  a  paper  into  Linden's 
hands,  the  substance  of  which  a  very  little  more  expe- 
rience of  the  world  would  have  enabled  Clarence  to 
foresee ;  it  ran  thus :  — 


G4  THE   DISOWNED. 

Clarence  Linden,  Esq.,  Dr. 

To  Mr.  MoRKis  Brown. 

To  Si.x  Pots  of  Freuch  Mustard £14     0 

To  Three  Supertiue  llolluud  IShirts,  with  Cambric  Bo- 
soms, complete  .         .         .         .         .         .         .410 

To  Two  Pots  of  Superior  French  Pomatum  .         .       0  10     0 

To  a  Tobacco-Cauister  of  enamelled  Tin,  with  a  finely- 
executed  head  of  the  Pretender ;  sliglit  liaw  in  tiie  same       0  12     6 

To  a  German  I'ipe,  second-hand,  as  good  as  new,  be- 
longing to  tlie  late  Lady  Waddilovc  .         .         .       1   18     0 

To  four  pair  of   Black  Silk  Hose,  ditto,  belonging  to 

her  Ladysliip's  husband       .         .         .         .         .         .280 

To  Two  Superfine  Embossed  Gold  Watch-seals,  with  a 
Classical  Motto  and  device  to  each,  —  namely,  Mouse- 
Trap  and  "  Prenez  Garde  "  to  one,  and  "  Who  the 
devil  can  this  be  from  1  "  i  to  the  other        .         .         .110 

To  a  remarkably  fine  Antique  Bing,  having  the  head 
of  a  Monkey 

A  ditto,  with  blue  stones 

A  ditto,  with  green  ditto 

A  Stuffed  Green  Parrot,  a  remarkable  favorite  of  the 
late  Lady  W ...... 

Sum  Total  .... 

Deduction  for  Ready  Money 

Mr.  Brown's  Profits  for  Brokerage     . 

Sura  Total  .... 

Received  of  Clarence  Linden  Esq.,  this         day  of  17' 

It  would  have  been  no  unainusing  study  to  watch  the 
expression  of  Clarence's  face  as  it  lengthened  over  each 
article  until  he  had  reached  the  final  conclusion.  He 
then  carefully  folded  up  the  paper,  restored  it  to  Mr. 
Brown,  with  a  low  bow,  and  said,  "  Excuse  me,  sir,  I 
will  not  take  advantage  of  your  generosity;  keep  your 
parrot  and  other  treasures  for  some  more  worthy  person. 

1  One  would  not  have  thought  these  ingenious  devices  had  been 
of  so  ancient  a  date  as  the  year  17 — . 


0   16 

6 

0  12 

6 

0   12 

6 

2     2 

0 

£15   18 

0 

.       0  1.3 

6 

£15     4 

6 

1   10 

0 

£16   14 

6 

THE   DISOWNED.  65 

I  cannot  accept  of  what  you  are  pleased  to  term  j'our 
very  valuable  preseJits  !  " 

"  Oh,  very  well,  —  very  Avell, "  said  Mr.  Brown, 
pocketing  the  paper,  and  seeming  perfectly  unconcerned 
at  the  termination  of  his  proposals;  "  perhaps  I  can  serve 
you  in  some  other  way  '\  " 

"  In  none,  I  thank  you, "  replied  Linden. 

"  Just  consider,  sir! — you  will  want  lodgings:  I  can 
find  them  for  you,  cheaper  than  you  can  yourself;  or 
perhaps  you  would  prefer  going  into  a  nice,  quiet,  gen- 
teel family,  where  you  can  have  both  board  and  lodging, 
and  be  treated  in  every  way  as  the  pet  cJiild  of  the 
master  ?  " 

A  thought  crossed  Linden's  mind.  He  was  going  to 
stay  in  town  some  time :  he  was  ignorant  of  its  ways ; 
he  had  neither  friends  nor  relations,  at  least  none  whom 
he  could  visit  and  consult;  moreover,  hotels,  he  knew, 
were  expensive;  lodgings,  though  cheaper,  might,  if 
tolerably  comfortable,  greatly  exceed  the  sum  prudence 
would  allow  him  to  expend;  would  not  this  plan  pro- 
posed by  Mr.  Brown,  of  going  into  a  "  nice,  quiet,  gen- 
teel family, "  be  the  most  advisable  one  he  could  adopt  ? 
The  generous  benefactor  of  the  late  and  ever-to-be-re- 
membered Lady  Waddilove  perceived  his  advantage,  and 
making  the  most  of  Clarence's  hesitation,  continued, — 

"  I  know  of  a  charming  little  abode,  sir,  situated  in 
the  suburbs  of  London,  quite  rws  in  urbe,  as  the  scholars 
say ;  you  can  have  a  delightful  little  back  parlor,  looking 
out  upon  the  garden,  and  all  to  yourself,  I  daresay." 

"  And  pray,  Mr.  Brown, "  interrupted  Linden,  "  what 
price  do  you  think  would  be  demanded  for  such  enviable 
accommodation  ?  If  you  offer  me  them  as  '  a  present^ ' 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  say  to  them. " 

"  Oh,  sir, "  answered  Mr.  BroAvn,  "  the  price  will  be  a 

VOL.  I.  —  5 


66  THE   DISOWNED. 

trifle, — a  mere  trifle;  but  I  will  inquire,  and  let  you 
know  the  exact  sum  in  the  course  of  the  day :  all  they 
want  is  a  respectable  gentlemanlike  lodger;  and  I  am 
sure  so  near  a  relation  of  Mrs.  JNIinden  will,  upon  my 
recommendation,  be  received  with  avidity.  Tlien,  you 
won't  have  any  of  these  valuable  articles,  sir  1  You  '11 
repent  it,  sir ;  take  my  word  for  it,  —  hem !  " 

"  Since, "  replied  Clarence,  dryly,  "  your  word  appears 
of  so  much  more  value  than  your  articles,  pardon  me  if 
I  prefer  taking  the  former  instead  of  the  latter." 

Mr.  Brown  forced  a  smile.  "  Well,  sir,  very  widl,  — 
very  well,  indeed.  You  will  not  go  out  before  two 
o'clock;  and  at  that  time  I  shall  call  upon  you  respect- 
ing the  commission  you  have  favored  me  with. " 

"  I  will  await  you, "  said  Clarence ;  and  he  bowed  Mr. 
Brown  out  of  the  room. 

"  Now,  really, "  said  Linden  to  himself,  as  he  paced 
the  narrow  limits  of  his  apartment,  "  I  do  not  see  what 
better  plan  I  can  pursue,  —  but  let  me  well  consider 
what  is  my  ultimate  object.  A  high  step  in  the  world's 
ladder !  • —  how  is  this  to  be  obtained  ?  First,  by  the 
regular  method  of  professions;  but  what  profession 
should  I  adopt?  The  church  is  incompatible  with  my 
object, —  the  army  and  navy  with  my  means.  Next 
come  the  regular  methods  of  adventure  and  enterprise, 
such  as  marriage  with  a  fortune, "  —  here  he  paused, 
and  looked  at  the  glass,  —  "  the  speculation  of  a  political 
pamphlet,  or  an  ode  to  the  minister;  attendance  on 
some  dying  miser  of  my  own  name,  without  a  relation 
in  the  world,  — or,  in  short,  any  other  mode  of  making 
money  that  may  decently  olfer  itself.  Now,  situated  as 
I  am,  without  a  friend  in  this  great  city,  I  might  as 
well  purchase  my  experience  at  as  cheap  a  rate  and 
in  as    brief  a  time  as  possible,  nor  do  I  see  any  plan 


THE   DISOWNED.  67 

of  doing  so  more  promising  than  that  proposed  hy  Mr. 
Brown. " 

These  and  such  Hke  reflections,  joined  to  the  inspiriting 
pages  of  the  "  Newgate  Calendar "  and  "  The  Covent 
Garden  Magazine,"  two  works  which  Clarence  dragged 
from  their  concealment  nnder  a  hlack  teatray,  afi"orded 
him  ample  occupation  till  the  hour  of  two,  punctual  to 
which  time  Mr.  Morris  Brown  returned. 

"  Well,  sir, "  cried  Clarence,  "  what  is  your  report  1  " 

The  friend  of  the  late  Lady  W wiped  his  hrow  and 

gave  three  long  sighs  before  he  replied :  "  A  long  walk, 
sir,  — a  very  long  walk  I  have  had;  but  I  have  suc- 
ceeded. No  thanks,  sir,  — no  thanks;  the  lady,  a  most 
charming,  delightful,  amiable  woman,  will  receive  you 
with  pleasure  —  you  will  have  the  use  of  a  back  parlor 
(as  I  said)  all  the  morning,  and  a  beautiful  little  bed- 
room entireh'  to  yourself  —  think  of  that,  sir.  You  will 
have  an  egg  for  breakfast,  and  you  will  dine  with  the  fam- 
ily at  three  o'clock;  quite  fashionable  hours  j'ou  see,  sir." 

"  And  the  terms?  "  said  Linden,  impatiently. 

"  Why,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Brown,  "the  lady  was  too 
genteel  to  talk  to  me  about  them, —  you  had  better  Avalk 
with  me  to  her  house  and  see  if  you  cannot  yourself  agree 
with  her." 

"I  will,"  said  Clarence.  "Will  you  wait  here  till 
I  have  dressed  ?  " 

Mr.  Brown  bowed  his  assent. 

"  I  might  as  well,"  thought  Clarence,  as  he  ascended 
to  his  bedroom,  "  inquire  into  the  character  of  this  gen- 
tleman, to  whose  good  offices  I  am  so  rashly  intrusting 
myself. "  He  rang  his  bell, —  the  chambermaid  appeared, 
and  was  dismissed  for  the  waiter.  The  character  was 
soon  asked,  and  soon  given.  For  our  reader's  sake, 
we  will  somewhat  enlarge  upon  it. 


68  THE   DISOWNED. 

Mr.  Morris  Brown  originally  came  into  the  world 
with  the  simple  appellation  of  Moses,  a  name  which 
his  father  —  honest  man  —  had,  as  the  Minories  can  still 
testify,  honorably  borne  before  him.  Scarcely,  however, 
had  the  little  Moses  attained  the  age  of  live,  when  his 
father,  for  causes  best  known  to  himself,  became  a 
Christian.  Somehow  or  other  there  is  a  most  potent 
connection  between  the  purse  and  the  conscience,  and 
accordingly  the  blessings  of  Heaven  descended  in  golden 
showers  upon  the  proselyte.  "  I  shall  die  worth  a  plum," 
said  Moses  the  elder  (who  had  taken  unto  himself  the 
Christian  cognomen  of  Brown) ,  —  "I  shall  die  worth  a 
plum,"  repeated  he,  as  he  went  one  fine  morning  to 
speculate  at  the  Exchange.  A  change  of  news,  sharp 
and  unexpected  as  a  change  of  wind,  lowered  the  stocks 
and  blighted  the  plum.  Mr.  Brown  was  in  the  "  Ga- 
zette "  that  week,  and  his  wife  in  weeds  for  him  the 
next.  He  left  behind  him,  besides  the  said  wife, 
several  debts  and  his  son  Moses.  Beggared  by  the 
former,  our  widow  took  a  small  shop  in  Wardour  Street 
to  support  the  latter.  Patient,  but  enterprising,  — 
cautious  of  risking  pounds,  indefatigable  in  raising 
pence,  —  the  little  Moses  inherited  the  propensities  of 
his  Hebrew  ancestors;  and,  though  not  so  capable  as 
his  immediate  progenitor  of  making  a  fortune,  he  was 
at  least  far  less  likely  to  lose  one.  In  spite,  however, 
of  all  the  industry,  both  of  mother  and  son,  the  gains  of 
the  shop  were  but  scanty :  to  increase  them  capital  was 
required,  and  all  Mr.  Moses  Brown's  capital  lay  in  his 
brain.  "  It  is  a  bad  foundation,"  said  the  mother,  with 
a  sigh.  "Not  at  all!"  said  the  son,  and,  leaving  the 
shop,  he  turned  broker.  Now  a  broker  is  a  man  who 
makes  an  income  out  of  other  people's  funds,  a  gleaner 
of   stray   extravagances;   and  by  doing  the  public   the 


THE   DISOWNED.  69 

honor  of  living  upon  them,  may  fairly  be  termed  a  little 
sort  of  state  minister  in  his  way.  What  with  haunting 
sales,  hawking  china,  selling  the  curiosities  of  one  old 
lady,  and  purchasing  the  same  for  another,  Mr.  Brown 
managed  to  enjoy  a  very  comfortable  existence.  Great 
pains  and  small  gains  will  at  last  invert  their  antithesis, 
and  rnalce  little  trouble  and  great  profit ;  so  that  by  the 
time  Mr.  Brown  had  attained  his  fortieth  year,  the 
petty  shop  had  become  a  large  warehouse;  and,  if  the 
worthy  Moses,  now  Christianized  into  Morris,  was  not 
so  sanguine  as  his  father  in  the  gathering  of  plums,  he 
had  been  at  least  fortunate  in  the  collecting  of  windfalls. 
To  say  truth,  the  Abigail  of  the  defunct  Lady  Waddi- 
love  had  been  no  unprofitable  helpmate  to  our  broker. 
As  ingenious  as  benevolent,  she  was  the  owner  of  certain 
rooms  of  great  resort  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  James's, 

—  rooms  where  caps  and  appointments  were  made  better 
than  anywhere  else,  and  where  credit  was  given,  and 
character  lost,  upon  terms  equally  advantageous  to  the 
accommodating  IMrs,  Brown. 

jNIeanwhile  her  husband,  continuing  through  liking 
what  he  had  begun  through  necessity,  slackened  not 
his  industry  in  augmenting  his  fortune:  on  the  contrary, 
small  profits  Avere  but  a  keener  incentive  to  large  ones, 

—  as  the  glutton  only  sharpened  by  luncheon  his  appe- 
tite for  dinner.  Still  was  INIr.  Brown  the  very  Alci- 
biades  of  brokers :  the  universal  genius, —  suiting  every 
man  to  his  humor.  Business,  of  whatever  description, 
from  the  purchase  of  a  borough  to  that  of  a  brooch,  was 
alike  the  object  of  Mr.  Brown's  most  zealous  pursuit: 
taverns,  where  country  cousins  put  up ;  rustic  habita- 
tions where  ancient  maidens  resided;  auction  or  barter; 
city,  or  hamlet,  — all  were  the  same  to  that  enterprising 
spirit,  which  made  out  of  every  acquaintance,  —  a  com- 


70  THE   DISOWNED. 

mission!  Sagacious  and  acute,  Mr.  Brown  perceived 
the  value  of  eccentricity  in  covering  design,  and  found, 
by  experience,  that  whatever  can  be  laughed  at  as  odd 
•will  be  gravely  considered  as  harmless.  Several  of  the 
broker's  peculiarities  were,  therefore,  more  artificial 
than  natural ;  and  many  were  the  sly  bargains  which  he 
smuggled  into  eifect  under  the  comfortable  cloak  of 
singularity.  No  wonder,  then,  that  the  crafty  Morris 
grew  gradually  in  repute  as  a  person  of  infinite  utility 
and  excellent  qualifications;  or  that  the  penetrating 
friends  of  his  deceased  sire  bowed  to  the  thriving  itin- 
erant, with  a  respect  which  they  denied  to  many  in 
loftier  professions  and  more  general  esteem. 


THE  DISOWNED.  71 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Trust  me  you  have  an  exceeding  fine  lodging  here,  —  very  neat 
and  private.  —  Ben  Josson. 

It  was  a  tolerable  long  walk  to  the  abode  of  which  the 
worthy  broker  spoke  in  such  high  terms  of  commendation. 
At  length,  at  the  suburbs  towards  Paddington,  Mr. 
Brown  stopped  at  a  very  small  house;  it  stood  rather 
retired  from  its  surrounding  neighbors,  which  were  of  a 
loftier  and  more  pretending  aspect  than  itself,  and,  in 
its  awkward  shape  and  pitiful  bashfulness,  looked  ex- 
ceedingly like  a  schoolboy  finding  himself  for  the  first 
time  in  a  grown-up  party,  and  shrinking  with  all  possi- 
ble expedition  into  the  obscurest  corner  he  can  discover. 
Passing  through  a  sort  of  garden,  in  which  a  spot  of 
grass  lay  in  the  embraces  of  a  stripe  of  gravel,  Mr. 
Brown  knocked  upon  a  very  bright  knocker  at  a  very 
new  door.  The  latter  Avas  opened,  and  a  footboy 
appeared. 

"  Is  jMrs.  Copperas  within  1  "  asked  the  broker. 

"  Yees,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Show  this  gentleman  and  myself  upstairs,"  resumed 
Brown. 

"  Yees,"  reiterated  the  lackey. 

Up  a  singularly  narrow  staircase,  into  a  singularly 
diminutive  drawing-room,  Clarence  and  his  guide  were 
ushered.  There,  seated  on  a  little  chair  by  a  little  work- 
table,  with  one  foot  on  a  little  stool  and  one  hand  on  a 
little  book,  was  a  little,  very  little  lady. 


72  THE   DISOWNED. 

"This  is  the  young  gentleman,"  .said  Mr.  Brown; 
and  Clarence  bowed  low,  in  token  of  the  introduction. 

The  lady  returned  the  salutation  with  an  aft'ected 
bend,  and  said,  in  a  mincing  and  grotesquely-subdued 
tone,  "  You  are  desirous,  sir,  of  entering  into  the  bosom 
of  my  family.  We  possess  accommodations  of  a  most 
elegant  description :  accustomed  to  the  genteelest  circles, 
enjoying  the  pure  breezes  of  the  Highgate  hills,  — 
and  presenting  to  any  guest  we  may  receive  the  attrac- 
tions of  a  home  rather  than  of  a  lodging,  you  will  find 
our  retreat  no  less  eligible  than  unique.  You  are  I 
presume,  sir,  in  some  profession,  some  city  avocation, 
or  —  or  trade  ?  " 

"  I  have  the  misfortune,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  to  belong 
to  no  profession." 

The  lady  looked  hard  at  the  speaker,  and  then  at  the 
broker.  With  certain  people  to  belong  to  no  profession 
is  to  be  of  no  respectability. 

"  The  most  unexceptionable  references  will  be  given, 
—  and  required"  resumed  Mrs.  Copperas, 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr,  Brown, —  "certainly;  the  gen- 
tleman is  a  relation  of  Mrs,  Minden,  a  very  old  customer 
of  mine." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Mrs.  Copperas,  "the  affair  is  set- 
tled; "  and,  rising,  she  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the 
footboy,  whom  she  addressed  by  the  grandiloquent  name 
of  De  Warens,  to  show  the  gentleman  the  apartments. 
While  Clarence  was  occupied  in  surveying  the  luxuries 
of  a  box  at  the  top  of  the  house,  called  a  bed-chamber, 
which  seemed  just  large  and  just  hot  enough  for  a  chrys- 
alis, and  a  corresponding  box  below,  termed  the  back 
parlor,  which  would  certainly  not  have  been  large 
enough  for  the  said  chrysalis  when  turned  into  a  butter- 
fly, Mr.   INIorris  Brown,  after  duly  expatiating  on  the 


THE   DISOWNED.  73 

merits  of  Clarence,  proceeded  to  speak  of  the  terms; 
those  were  soon  settled,  for  Clarence  was  yielding,  and 
the  lady  not  above  three  times  as  extortionate  as  she 
ought  to  have  been. 

Before  Linden  left  the  house,  the  bargain  was  con- 
cluded. That  night  his  trunks  were  removed  to  his 
new  abode,  and  having  with  incredible  difficultj^  been 
squeezed  into  the  bedroom,  Clarence  surveyed  them  with 
the  same  astonishment  with  which  the  virtuoso  beheld 
the  flies  in  amber, — 

Not  that  the  things  were  either  rich  or  rare, 
He  wondered  how  the  devil  they  got  there  1 


74  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Such  scenes  liad  tempered  witli  a  pensive  grace, 
The  maiden  histre  of  tliat  faultless  face  ; 
Had  hung  a  sad  and  dreamlike  spell  upon 
The  gliding  music  of  her  silver  tone, 
And  shaeled  the  soft  soul  which  loved  to  lie 
In  the  deep  pathos  of  that  volumed  eye. 

O'Neill,  or  the  Rebel. 

The  love  thus  kindled  between  them  was  of  no  common  or  calcula- 
ting nature ;  it  was  vigorous  and  delicious,  and  at  times  so  sud- 
denly intense  as  to  appear  to  their  young  hearts,  for  a  moment 
or  so,  with  almost  an  awful  character.  —  Inesilla. 

The  reader  will  fiij;ure  to  hira.self  a  small  chamber,  in  a 
remote  Aving  of  a  large  and  noble  mansion,  —  the  walls 
were  covered  with  sketches,  whose  extreme  delicacy  of 
outline  and  coloring  betrayed  the  sex  of  the  artist;  a  few 
shelves  filled  with  books  supported  vases  of  flowers.  A 
harp  stood  neglected  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and 
just  above  hung  the  slender  prison  of  one  of  those  golden 
wanderers  from  the  Canary  Isles  which  bear  to  our 
colder  land  some  of  the  gentlest  music  of  their  skies  and 
zephyrs.  The  window,  reacliing  to  the  ground,  was 
open,  and  looked  through  the  clusters  of  jasmine  and 
honeysuckle  which  surrounded  the  low  veranda  beyond, 
upon  thick  and  frequent  copses  of  blossoming  shrubs, 
redolent  of  spring,  and  sparkling  in  the  sunn}'  tears  of  a 
May  shower,  which  had  only  just  wept  itself  away. 
Embosomed  in  these  little  groves  lay  plots  of  flowers, 
girdled  with  turf  as  green  as  ever  wooed  the  nightly 
dances  of   the  fairies;  and,  afar  off,  through  one  artful 


THE   DISOWNED.  75 

opening,  the  eye  caught  the  glittering  wanderings  of 
water,  on  whose  light  and  smiles  the  universal  happi- 
ness of  the  young  year  seemed  reflected. 

But  in  that  chamber,  heedless  of  all  around,  and  cold 
to  the  joy  with  which  everything  else,  equally  youth- 
ful, beautiful,  and  innocent,  seemed  breathing  and  in- 
spired, sat  a  very  young  and  lovel}''  female.  Her  cheek 
leaned  upon  her  hand,  and  large  tears  flowed  fast  and 
burningly  over  the  small  and  delicate  fingers.  The 
comb  that  had  confined  her  tresses  lay  at  her  feet,  and 
the  high  dress  which  concealed  her  swelling  breast  had 
been  loosened,  to  give  vent  to  the  sufi"ocating  and  indig- 
nant throbbings  which  had  rebelled  against  its  cincture, 
—  all  appeared  to  announce  that  bitterness  of  grief  when 
the  mind,  as  it  were,  wreaks  its  scorn  upon  the  body  in 
its  contempt  for  external  seemings,  and  to  proclaim  that 
the  present  more  subdued  and  softened  sorrow  had  only 
succeeded  to  a  burst  far  less  quiet  and  uncontrolled. 
Woe  to  those  who  eat  the  bread  of  dependence,  —  their 
tears  are  wnmg  from  the  inmost  sources  of  the  heart. 

Isabel  St.  Leger  was  the  only  child  of  a  captain  in 
the  army,  who  died  in  her  infancy.  Her  mother  had 
survived  him  but  a  few  months;  and  to  the  reluctant 
care  and  cold  affections  of  a  distant  and  wealthy  relation 
of  the  same  name,  the  warm-hearted  and  penniless 
orphan  was  consigned.  Major-General  Cornelius  St. 
Leger,  whose  riches  had  been  purchased  in  India  at 
the  price  of  his  constitution,  was  of  a  temper  as  hot  as 
his  curries,  and  he  wreaked  it  the  more  unsparingly  on 
his  ward,  because  the  superior  ill-temper  of  his  maiden 
sister  had  prevented  his  giving  vent  to  it  upon  her. 
That  sister.  Miss  Diana  St.  Leger,  was  a  meagre  gen- 
tlewoman of  about  six  feet  high,  with  a  loud  voice  and 
commanding  aspect.     Long  in  awe  of  her  brother,  she 


76  THE    DISOWNED. 

rejoiced  at  heart  to  find  some  one  whom  she  had  such 
right  and  reason  to  make  in  awe  of  herself;  and  from 
the  age  of  four  to  that  of  seventeen,  Isabel  sull'ered 
every  insult  and  every  degradation  which  could  be  in- 
flicted upon  her  by  the  tyranny  of  her  two  protectors. 
Her  spirit,  however,  was  far  from  being  broken  by  the 
rude  shocks  it  received;  on  the  contrary,  her  mind, 
gentleness  itself  to  the  kind,  rose  indignantly  against 
the  unjust.  It  was  true  that  the  sense  of  wrong  did  not 
break  forth  audibly ;  for,  though  susceptible,  Isabel  was 
meek,  and  her  pride  was  concealed  by  the  outward  soft- 
ness and  feminacy  of  her  temper;  but  she  stole  away 
from  those  who  had  wounded  her  heart,  or  trampled 
upon  its  feelings,  and  nourished  with  secret  but  pas- 
sionate tears  the  memory  of  the  harshness  or  injustice 
she  had  endured.  Yet  she  was  not  vindictive,  —  her 
resentment  was  a  noble,  not  a  debasing  feeling;  once, 
when  she  was  yet  a  child.  Miss  Diana  was  attacked 
with  a  fever  of  the  most  malignant  and  infectious  kind ; 
her  brother  loved  himself  far  too  well  to  risk  his  safety 
by  attending  her;  the  servants  were  too  happy  to  wreak 
their  hatred  under  the  pretence  of  obeying  their  fears, 
—  they  consequently  followed  the  example  of  their  mas- 
ter; and  Miss  Diana  St.  Leger  might  have  gone  down 
to  her  ancestors  "  unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung,"  if 
Isabel  had  not  volunteered  and  enforced  her  attendance. 
Hour  after  hour  her  fairy  form  flittered  around  the  sick- 
chamber,  or  sat  mute  and  breathless  by  the  feverish  bed: 
she  had  neither  fear  for  contagion,  nor  bitterness  for  past 
oppression;  everything  vanished  beneath  the  one  liope 
of  serving,  the  one  gratification  of  feeling  herself,  in 
the  wide  waste  of  creation,  not  utterly  without  use,  as 
she  had  been  hitherto  without  friends. 

Miss  St.   Leger  recovered.     "  For  your  recovery,  in 


THE   DISOWNED.  7/ 

the  first  place,"  said  the  doctor,  "you  will  thank 
Heaven;  in  the  second,  you  will  thank  your  young 
relation;  "  and  for  several  days  the  convalescent  did 
overwhelm  the  happy  Isabel  with  her  praises  and 
caresses.  But  this  change  did  not  last  long :  the  chaste 
Diana  had  been  too  spoiled  by  the  prosperity  of  many 
years,  for  tlie  sickness  of  a  single  month  to  effect  much 
good  in  her  disposition.  Her  old  habits  were  soon 
resumed ;  and  though  it  is  probable  that  her  heart  was 
in  reality  softened  towards  the  poor  Isabel,  that  soften- 
ing by  no  means  extended  to  her  temper.  In  truth,  the 
brother  and  sister  were  not  without  affection  for  one  so 
beautiful  and  good ;  but  they  had  been  torturing  slaves 
all  their  lives,  and  their  affection  was,  and  could  be, 
but  that  of  a  taskmaster  or  a  planter. 

But  Isabel  was  the  only  relation  who  ever  appeared 
within  their  walls,  and,  among  the  guests  with  whom 
the  luxurious  mansion  was  crowded,  she  passed  no  less 
for  the  heiress  than  the  dependant;  to  her,  therefore,  was 
offered  the  homage  of  many  lips  and  hearts,  and  if  her 
pride  was  perpetually  galled,  and  her  feelings  insulted 
in  private,  her  vanity  (had  that  equalled  her  pride,  and 
her  feelings,  in  its  susceptibility)  would  in  no  slight 
measure  have  recompensed  her  in  public.  Unhappily, 
however,  her  vanity  was  the  least  prominent  quality 
she  possessed ;  and  the  compliments  of  mercenary  adula- 
tion were  not  more  rejected  by  her  heart  than  despised 
by  her  understanding. 

Yet  did  she  bear  within  her  a  deep  fund  of  buried 
tenderness,  and  a  mine  of  girlish  and  entliusiastic  ro- 
mance: dangerous  gifts  to  one  so  situated,  which,  while 
they  gave  to  her  secret  moments  of  solitude  a  powerful 
but  vague  attraction,  probably  only  prepared  for  her 
future   years  the  snare  which  might  betray  them   into 


78  THE    DISOWNED. 

error,  or  the    delusion    -wliich    would    color  them  with 
regret. 

Among  those  Avhora  the  ostentatious  hospitality  of 
General  St.  Leger  attracted  to  his  house,  was  one  of  very 
different  character  and  pretensions  to  the  rest.  Formed 
to  be  unpopular  with  the  generality  of  men,  the  very 
qualities  that  made  him  so  were  those  which  principally 
fascinate  the  higher  description  of  women.  Of  ancient 
birth,  which  rendered  still  more  displeasing  the  pride 
and  coldness  of  his  mien;  of  talents  peculiarly  framed  to 
attract  interest  as  well  as  esteem ;  of  a  deep  and  somewhat 
morbid  melancholy,  which,  while  it  turned  from  ordi- 
nary ties,  inclined  yearningly  towards  passionate  affec- 
tions; of  a  temper  where  romance  was  only  concealed 
from  the  many,  to  become  more  seductive  to  the  few; 
unsocial,  but  benevolent;  disliked,  but  respected;  of 
the  austerest  demeanor,  but  of  passions  the  most  fervid, 
though  the  most  carefully  concealed,  —  this  man  united 
Avithin  himself  all  that  repels  the  common  mass  of  his 
species,  and  all  that  irresistibly  wins  and  fascinates  the 
rare  and  romantic  few.  To  these  qualities  were  added  a 
carriage  and  bearing  of  that  high  and  commanding  order 
which  men  mistake  for  arrogance  and  pretension,  and 
women  overrate  in  proportion  to  its  contrast  to  their 
own.  Something  of  mystery  there  was  in  the  com- 
mencement of  the  deep  and  eventful  love  which  took 
place  between  this  person  and  Isabel,  which  I  have 
never  been  able  to  learn.  Whatever  it  was,  it  seemed 
to  expedite  and  heighten  the  ordinary  progress  of  love; 
and  when  in  the  dim  twilight,  beneath  the  first  melan- 
choly smile  of  the  earliest  star,  their  hearts  opened  au- 
dibly to  each  other,  that  confession  had  been  made 
silently  long  since,  and  registered  in  the  inmost  recesses 
of  the  soul. 


THE   DISOWNED.  79 

But  their  passion,  which  began  in  prosperity,  was 
soon  darkened.  Whether  he  took  offence  at  the  haughti- 
ness of  Isabel's  lover,  or  whether  he  desired  to  retain 
about  him  an  object  which  he  could  torment  and  tyran- 
nize over,  no  sooner  did  the  General  discover  the  attach- 
ment of  his  young  relation,  than  he  peremptorily  forbade 
its  indulgence,  and  assumed  so  insolent  and  overbearing 
an  air  towards  the  lover  that  the  latter  felt  he  could 
no  longer  repeat  his  visits  to  or  even  continue  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  nal)ol3. 

To  add  to  these  adverse  circumstances,  a  relation  of 
the  lover,  from  whom  his  expectations  had  been  large, 
was  so  enraged,  not  only  at  the  insult  his  cousin  had 
received,  but  at  the  very  idea  of  his  forming  an  alliance 
with  one  in  so  dependent  a  situation,  and  connected 
with  such  new  blood,  as  Isabel  St.  Leger,  that  with 
that  arrogance  which  relations,  however  distant,  think 
themselves  authorized  to  assume,  he  enjoined  his  cousin, 
upon  pain  of  forfeiture  of  favor  and  fortune,  to  renounce 
all  idea  of  so  disparaging  an  alliance.  The  one  thus 
addressed  was  not  of  a  temper  patiently  to  submit  to 
such  threats:  he  answered  them  with  disdain,  and  the 
breach,  so  dangerous  to  his  pecuniary  interest,  was 
already  begun. 

So  far  had  the  history  of  our  lover  proceeded  at  the 
time  in  which  we  have  introduced  Isabel  to  the  reader, 
and  described  to  him  the  chamber  to  which,  in  all  her 
troubles  and  humiliations,  she  was  accustomed  to  fly,  as 
to  a  sad,  but  still  unviolated  sanctuary  of  retreat. 

The  quiet  of  this  asylum  was  first  broken  by  a  slight 
rustling  among  the  leaves;  but  Isabel's  back  was  turned 
towards  the  window,  and  in  the  engrossment  of  her  feel- 
ings she  heard  it  not.  The  thick  copse  that  darkened 
the  left  side  of  the  veranda   was   pierced,  and  a  man 


80  THE    DISOWNED. 

passc^d  within  the  covered  space,  and  stood  still  and 
silent  before  the  window,  intently  gazing  upon  the  Kgure 
Avhich  (though  the  face  was  turned  from  him)  betrayed 
in  its  proportions  that  beauty  which,  in  his  eyes,  had 
neither  an  equal  nor  a  fault. 

The  figure  of  the  stranger,  though  not  very  tall,  was 
above  the  ordinary  height,  and  gracefully,  rather  than 
robustly,  formed.  He  was  dressed  in  the  darkest  colors 
and  the  simplest  fashion,  which  rendered  yet  more  strik- 
ing the  nobleness  of  his  mien,  as  well  as  the  clear  and 
almost  delicate  paleness  of  his  complexion ;  his  features 
were  finely  and  accurately  formed;  and  had  not  ill- 
health,  long  travel,  or  severe  thought  deepened  too 
much  the  lines  of  the  countenance,  and  sharpened  its 
contour,  the  classic  perfection  of  those  features  would 
have  rendered  him  undeniably  and  even  eminently  liand- 
some:  as  it  was,  the  paleness  and  the  somewhat  worn 
character  of  his  face,  joined  to  an  expression,  at  first 
glance,  rather  haughty  and  repellent,  made  him  lose  in 
physical,  what  he  certainly  gained  in  intellectual  beauty. 
His  eyes  were  large,  deep,  and  melancholy;  and  had  the 
hat  which  now  hung  over  his  brow  been  removed,  it 
would  have  displayed  a  forehead  of  remarkable  boldness 
and  power. 

Altogether,  the  face  was  cast  in  a  rare  and  intellectual 
mould,  and,  if  wanting  in  those  more  luxuriant  attrac- 
tions common  to  the  age  of  the  stranger,  who  could 
scarcely  have  attained  his  twenty-sixth  year,  it  beto- 
kened, at  least,  that  predominance  of  mind  over  body, 
which,  in  some  eyes,  is  the  most  requisite  characteristic 
of  mascidine  beauty. 

With  a  soft  and  noiseless  step,  the  stranger  moved 
from  his  station  without  the  window,  and,  entering  the 
room,  stole  towards  the  spot  on  which  Isabel  was  sitting. 


THE   DISOWNED.  81 

He  leaned  over  lier  chair,  and  his  eye  rested  upon  his 
own  picture,  and  a  letter  in  his  own  writing,  over  which 
the  tears  of  the  young  orphan  flowed  fast. 

A  moment  more  of  agitated  happiness  for  one,  of 
unconscious  and  continued  sadness  for  the  other,  — 

*T  is  past,  —  her  lover  's  at  her  feet. 

And  what  indeed  "  was  to  them  the  world  beside,  with 
all  its  changes  of  time  and  tide?"  Joy,  hope,  —  all 
blissful  and  bright  sensations,  lay  mingled  like  meet- 
ing waters,  in  one  sunny  stream  of  heartfelt  and  un- 
fathomable enjoyment;  but  this  passed  away,  and  the 
remembrance  of  bitterness  and  evil  succeeded. 

"  Oh,  Algernon!  "  said  Isabel,  in  a  low  voice,  "  is  this 
your  promise  1  " 

"Believe  me,"  said  Mordaunt,  for  it  was  indeed  he, 
"I  struggled  long  with  my  feelings,  but  in  vain;  and 
for  both  our  sakes,  I  rejoice  at  the  conquest  they  ob- 
tained. I  listened  only  to  a  deceitful  delusion  when  I 
imagined  I  was  obeying  the  dictates  of  reason.  Ah, 
dearest,  why  should  we  part  for  the  sake  of  dubious  and 
distant  evils,  when  the  misery  of  absence  is  the  most 
certain,  the  most  unceasing  evil  we  can  endure  1  " 

"  For  your  sake,  and  therefore  for  mine!  "  interrupted 
Isabel,  struggling  with  her  tears.  "  I  am  a  beggar  and 
an  outcast.  You  must  not  link  your  fate  with  mine. 
I  could  bear,  Heaven  knows  how  willingly,  poverty  and 
all  its  evils /or  you  and  vnth  you.;  but  I  cannot  bringr 
them  upon  you." 

"Nor  will  you,"  said  Mordaunt,  passionately,  as  he 
covered  the  hand  he  held  with  his  burning  kisses. 
"  Have  I  not  enough  for  both  of  us  ?  It  is  my  love , 
not  poverty,  that  I  beseech  you  to  share." 

"No!  Algernon,  you  cannot  deceive  me:    your  own 

VOL.  I. 6 


82  THE    DISOWNED. 

estate  will  be  torn  from  you  by  the  law;  if  you  marry 
me,  your  cousin  will  not  assist  you:  I,  you  know  too 
well,  can  command  nothing;  and  I  shall  see  you,  for 
whom  in  my  fond  and  bright  dreams  I  have  presaged 
everything  great  and  exalted,  buried  in  an  obscurity 
from  which  your  talents  can  never  rise,  and  suffering 
the  pangs  of  poverty,  and  dependence,  and  humiliation 
like  my  own,  and  —  and  —  I — should  be  the  wretch 
who  caused  you  all.  Never,  Algernon,  never!  I  love 
you  too,  —  too  well!" 

But  the  effort  which  wrung  forth  the  determination 
of  the  tone  in  which  these  words  were  uttered  was  too 
violent  to  endure;  and,  as  the  full  desolation  of  her 
despair  crowded  fast  and  dark  upon  the  orphan's  mind, 
she  sank  back  upon  her  chair  in  very  sickness  of  soul, 
nor  heeded,  in  her  unconscious  misery,  that  her  hand 
was  yet  clasped  by  her  lover,  and  that  her  head  drooped 
upon  his  bosom. 

"  Isabel,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  sweet  tone,  which  to  her 
ear  seemed  the  concentration  of  all  earthly  music,  — 
"Isabel,  look  up,  my  own,  my  beloved,  —  look  up  and 
hear  me.  Perhaps  you  say  truly  when  you  tell  me  that 
the  possessions  of  my  house  shall  melt  away  from  me, 
and  that  my  relation  will  not  offer  to  me  the  precarious 
bounty  which,  even  if  he  did  offer,  I  would  reject;  but, 
dearest,  are  there  not  a  thousand  paths  open  to  me,  — 
the  law,  the  state,  the  army? — you  are  silent,  Isabel, 
—  speak !  " 

Isabel  did  not  reply ;  but  the  soft  eyes  which  rested 
upon  his  told,  in  their  despondency,  how  little  her 
reason  was  satisfied  by  the  arguments  he  urged. 

"Besides,"  he  continued,  "  we  know  not  yet  whether 
the  law  may  not  decide  in  my  favor;  at  all  events,  years 
may  pass  before  the  judgment  is  given :  those  years  make 


THE    DISOWNED.  83 

the  prime  and  verdure  of  our  lives,  —  let  us  not  waste 
them  in  mourning  over  blighted  hopes  and  severed  hearts ; 
let  us  snatch  what  happiness  is  yet  in  our  power,  nor 
anticipate,  while  the  heavens  are  still  bright  above  us, 
the  burden  of  the  thunder  or  the  cloud. " 

Isabel  was  one  of  the  least  selfish  and  most  devoted  of 
human  beings,  yet  she  must  be  forgiven  if  at  that  mo- 
ment her  resolution  faltered,  and  the  overpowering 
thought  of  being  in  reality  his  forever  flashed  upon  her 
mind.  It  passed  from  her  the  moment  it  was  formed, 
and,  rising  from  a  situation  in  which  the  touch  of  that 
dear  hand,  and  the  breath  of  those  wooing  lips  endan- 
gered the  virtue,  and  weakened  the  strength  of  her  re- 
solves, she  withdrew  herself  from  his  grasp,  and  while 
she  averted  her  eyes,  which  dared  not  encounter  his,  she 
said  in  a  low  but  firm  voice,  — 

"It  is  in  vain,  Algernon;  it  is  in  vain.  I  can  be  to 
you  nothing  but  a  blight  or  burden, — nothing  but  a 
source  of  privation  and  anguish.  Think  you  that  I  will 
be  this?  —  no,  I  will  not  darken  your  fair  hopes,  and 
impede  your  reasonable  ambition.  Go  "  (and  here  her 
voice  faltered  for  a  moment,  but  soon  recovered  its  tone) 
—  "go,  Algernon,  dear  Algernon;  and,  if  my  foolish 
heart  Avill  not  ask  you  to  think  of  me  no  more,  I  can  at 
least  implore  you  to  think  of  me  only  as  one  who  would 
die  rather  than  cost  you  a  moment  of  that  poverty  and 
debasement,  the  bitterness  of  which  she  has  felt  herself, 
and  who,  for  that  very  reason,  tears  herself  away  from 
you  forever." 

"Stay,  Isabel,  stay!"  cried  Mordaunt,  as  he  caught 
hold  of  her  robe;  "  give  me  but  one  word  more,  and  you 
shall  leave  me.  Say  that  if  I  can  create  for  myself  a 
new  source  of  independence ;  if  I  can  carve  out  a  road 
where  the  ambition  you  erroneously  impute  to  me  can 


84  THE   DISOWNED. 

be  gratified,  as  well  as  the  more  moderate  wishes  our 
station  has  made  natural  to  lis  to  form;  say,  that  if  I  do 
this,  I  may  permit  myself  to  hope;  say,  that  when  I 
have  done  it,  I  may  claim  you  as  my  own!  " 

Isabel  paused,  and  turned  once  more  her  face  towards 
his  o^A•n.  Her  lips  moved,  and  though  the  words  died 
within  her  heart,  yet  Mordaunt  read  well  their  import 
in  the  blushing  cheek  and  the  heaving  bosom,  and  the 
lips  which  one  ray  of  hope  and  comfort  was  sufficient  to 
kindle  into  smiles.  He  gazed,  and  all  obstacles,  all 
difficulties  disappeared;  the  gulf  of  time  seemed  past, 
and  he  felt  as  if  already  he  had  earned  and  won  his 
reward. 

He  approached  her  yet  nearer:  one  kiss  on  those  lips, 
one  pressure  of  that  thrilling  hand,  one  long,  last  em- 
brace of  that  shrinking  and  trembling  form,  — and  then, 
as  the  door  closed  upon  his  view,  he  felt  that  the  sun- 
shine of  nature  had  passed  away,  and  that  in  the  midst 
of  the  laughing  and  peopled  earth  he  stood  in  darkness 
and  alone. 


THE  DISOWNED.  85 


CHAPTER  XI. 

He  who  would  know  mankind  must  be  at  home  with  all  men. 

Stephen  Moxtagce. 

We  left  Clarence  safely  deposited  in  his  little  lodgings. 
Whether  from  the  heat  of  his  apartment  or  the  restless- 
ness of  a  migration  of  beds  produces  in  certain  constitu- 
tions, his  slumbers  on  the  first  night  of  his  arrival  were 
disturbed  and  brief.  He  rose  early  and  descended  to 
the  parlor;  Mr.  de  Warens,  the  nobly-appellatived 
footboy,  was  laying  the  breakfast-cloth.  From  three 
painted  shelves,  which  constituted  the  library  of  "  Cop- 
peras Bower,"  as  its  owners  gracefully  called  their 
habitation,  Clarence  took  down  a  book  very  prettily 
bound :  it  was  "  Poems  by  a  Nobleman. "  No  sooner 
had  he  read  two  pages  than  he  did  exactly  what  tbe 
reader  would  have  done,  and  restored  the  volume  re- 
spectfully to  its  place.  He  then  drew  his  chair  towards 
the  window,  and  wistfully  eyed  sitndry  ancient  nursery- 
maids, who  were  leading  their  infant  charges  to  the 
"  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new,"  of  what  is  now  the 
Regent's  Park. 

In  about  an  hour  Mrs.  Copperas  descended,  and 
mutual  compliments  were  exchanged;  to  her  succeeded 
Mr,  Copperas,  who  was  well  scolded  for  his  laziness; 
and  to  them,  Master  Adolphus  Copperas,  who  was  also 
chidingly  termed  a  naughty  darling  for  the  same  offence. 
Now,  then,  Mrs.  Copperas  prepared  the  tea,  which  she 
did  in  the  approved  method,  adopted  by  all  ladies  to 
whom  economy  is  dearer  than   renown,  —  namely,  the 


86  TlIK   DISOWNED. 

least  possible  quantity  of  the  soi-dlaant  Chinese  plant 
•was  first  sprinkled  l)y  the  least  possil)le  quantity  of  hot 
water!  after  this  mixture  had  become  as  black  and  as 
bitter  as  it  could  possibly  be,  without  any  adjunct  from 
the  apothecary's  skill,  it  was  suddenly  drenched  with  a 
copious  diffusion,  and  as  suddenly  poured  forth,  weak, 
washy,  and  abominable,  into  four  cups,  severally  apper- 
taining unto  the  four  partakers  of  the  matutinal  nectar. 

Then  the  conversation  began  to  flow.  Mrs.  Copperas 
was  a  fine  lady,  and  a  sentimentalist,  —  very  observant 
of  the  little  niceties  of  phrase  and  manner.  Mr.  Cop- 
peras was  a  stock-jobber  and  a  wit;  loved  a  good  hit  in 
each  capacity;  was  very  round,  very  short,  and  very 
much  like  a  John  Dory,  —  and  saw  in  the  features  and 
mind  of  the  little  Copperas  the  exact  representative  of 
himself. 

"  Adolphus,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Copperas,  "mind 
what  I  told  you,  and  sit  upright.  Mr.  Linden,  will 
you  allow  me  to  cut  you  a  leetle  piece  of  this  roll  1  " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Clarence,  "  I  will  trouble  you 
rather  for  the  whole  of  it." 

Conceive  Mrs.  Copperas's  dismay!  from  that  moment 
she  saw  herself  eaten  out  of  house  and  home;  besides, 
as  she  afterwards  observed  to  her  friend,  j\Iiss  Barbara 
York,  the  "  vulgarity  of  such  an  amazing  appetite!" 

"Any  commands  in  the  city,  ]Mr.  Linden?"  asked 
the  husband:  "  a  coach  will  pass  by  our  door  in  a  few 
minutes, —  must  be  on  'Change  in  half  an  hour.  Come, 
my  love,  another  cup  of  tea;  make  haste,  —  I  have 
scarcely  a  moment  to  take  my  fare  for  the  inside,  be- 
fore coachee  takes  his  for  the  outside.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Mr.   Linden." 

"Lord,  Mr.  Copperas,"  said  his  helpmate,  "how  can 
you  be  so  silly  1  —  setting  such  an  example  to  your  sou- 


THE   DISOAVNED.  87 

too;  never  mind  him,  Adolphus,  my  love, — fie,  child, 
a'n't  you  ashamed  of  j'ourself  1  —  never  put  the  spoon  in 
your  cup  till  you  have  done  tea.  I  must  really  send 
you  to  school  to  learn  manners.  —  We  have  a  very  pretty 
little  collection  of  books  here,  Mr.  Linden,  if  you  would 
like  to  read  an  hour  or  two  after  breakfast,  —  child,  take 
your  hands  out  of  your  pockets,  —  all  the  best  English 
classics,  I  believe, —  '  Telemachus,'  and  Young's  '  Night 
Thoughts,'  and  '  Joseph  Andrews,'  and  the  '  Spectator,' 
and  Pope's  '  Iliad,'  and  Creech's  '  Lucretius; '  but  you 
will  look  over  them  yourself!  This  is  Liberty  Hall, 
as  well  as  Copperas  Bower,  Mr.  Linden !  " 

"  Well,  my  love,"  said  the  stock-jobber,  "  I  believe 
I  must  be  off.  Here,  Tom,  Tom  "  (Mr.  de  Warens  had 
just  entered  the  room  with  some  more  hot  water,  to 
weaken  still  farther  "  the  poor  remains  of  what  Avas 
once"  —  the  tea!),  —  "  Tom,  just  run  out  and  stop  the 
coach,  it  will  be  by  in  five  minutes." 

"  Have  not  I  prayed,  and  besought  you,  many  and 
many  a  time,  Mr.  Copperas,"  said  the  lady,  rebukingly, 
"  not  to  call  De  Warens  by  his  Christian  name?  Don't 
you  know  that  all  people  in  genteel  life  who  only  keep 
one  servant  invariably  call  him  by  his  surname,  as  if  he 
were  the  butler,  you  know  1  " 

"iSTow,  that  is  too  good,  my  love,"  said  Copperas. 
"  I  will  call  poor  Tom  by  any  surname  you  please,  but 
I  really  can't  pass  him  off  for  a  butler!  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
—  you  must  excuse  me  there,  my  love!  " 

"And  pray,  why  not,  Mr.  Copperas?  I  ha^se  known 
many  a  butler  bungle  more  at  a  cork  than  he  does;  and 
pray  tell  me,  who  did  you  ever  see  wait  better  at 
dinner?" 

"  He  Avait  at  dinner,  my  love !  it  is  not  he  Avho 
waits. " 


88  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  ^Yho  then,  Mr.  Copperas?  " 

"Why  7ve,  my  love,  —  it 's  we  who  wait  for  dinner: 
but  that 's  the  cook's  fault,  not  his." 

"Pshaw,  Mr.  Copperas, — Adolphus,  my  love,  sit 
upright,  darling." 

Here  De  Warens  cried  from  the  bottom  of  the  stairs: 

"  Measter,  the  coach  be  coming  up." 

"  Tliere  won't  be  room  for  it  to  turn,  then,"  said  the 
facetious  Mr.  Copperas,  looking  round  the  apartment,  as 
if  he  took  the  words  literally. 

"What  coach  is  it,  boy?" 

Now  that  was  not  the  age  in  which  coaches  scoured 
the  city  every  half-hour,  and  Mr.  Copperas  knew  the 
name  of  the  coach  as  well  as  he  knew  his  own. 

"  It  be  the  Swallow  coach,  sir." 

"Oh,  very  well;  then  since  I  have  swallowed  in 
the  roll,  I  will  now  roll  into  the  Swallow, —  ha,  ha,  ha! 
Good-by,  Mr.  Linden." 

No  sooner  had  the  witty  stock-jobber  left  the  room 
than  Mrs.  Copperas  seemed  to  expand  into  a  new  exist- 
ence. "  My  husband,  sir,"  said  she,  apologetically,  "  is 
so  odd,  but  he  's  an  excellent,  sterling  character;  aiid 
that,  you  know,  Mr.  Linden,  tells  more  in  the  bosom  of 
a  family  than  all  the  shini:ig  qualities  which  captivate 
the  imagination.  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Linden,  that  the 
moralist  is  riglit  in  admonisliiug  us  to  prefer  the  gold  to 
the  tinsel.  1  have  now  been  married  some  years,  and 
every  year  seems  happier  than  the  last;  but  then,  Mr. 
Linden,  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  contemplate  the  growing 
graces  of  the  sweet  pledge  of  our  mutual  love,  —  Adol- 
phus, my  dear,  keep  your  feet  still,  and  take  your  hands 
out  of  your  pockets !  " 
A  short  pause  ensued. 
"We   see  a  great  deal  of  company,"  said  Mrs.  Cop- 


THE   DISOWNED.  89 

peras,  pompously,  "  and  of  the  very  best  description. 
Sometimes  we  are  favored  by  the  society  of  the  great  Mr. 
Talbot,  a  gentleman  of  immense  fortune,  and  quite  the 
courtier:  he  is,  it  is  true,  a  little  eccentric  in  his  dress; 
but  then  he  was  a  celebrated  beau  in  his  young  days. 
He  is  our  next  neighbor;  you  can  see  his  house  out  of 
the  window,  just  across  the  garden,  —  there!  We  have 
also,  sometimes,  our  humble  board  graced  by  a  very 
elegant  friend  of  mine,  Miss  Barbara  York,  a  lady  of 
very  high  connections,  her  first  cousin  was  a  lord  mayor, 
—  Adolphus,  my  dear,  what  are  you  about?  Well,  Mr. 
Linden,  you  will  find  your  retreat  quite  undisturbed. 
I  must  go  about  the  household  affairs;  not  that  I  do 
anything  more  than  superintend,  you  know,  sir;  but  I 
think  no  lady  should  be  above  consulting  her  husband's 
interests,  — that 's  what  I  call  true  old  English  conjugal 
affection.     Come,  Adolphus,  my  dear." 

And  Clarence  was  now  alone.  "  I  fear,"  thought  he, 
"  that  I  shall  get  on  very  indifferently  with  these 
people.  But  it  will  not  do  for  me  to  be  misanthropical 
(and,  as  Dr.  Latinas  was  wont  to  say),  the  great  merit 
of  philosophy,  when  we  cannot  command  circumstances, 
is  to  reconcile  us  to  them." 


90  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  retired  beau  is  one  of  the  most  instructive  spectacles  in  the  world. 

Stephen  Montague. 

It  was  quite  true  that  Mrs.  Copperas  saw  a  great  deal 
of  company;  for,  at  a  certain  charge,  upon  certain  days, 
any  individual  might  have  the  honor  of  sharing  her 
family  repast:  and  many,  of  various  callings,  tliough 
chiefly  in  commercial  life,  met  at  her  miscellaneous 
board.  Clarence  must,  indeed,  have  been  difficult  to 
please,  or  obtuse  of  observation,  if,  in  the  variety  of  her 
guests  he  had  not  found  something  either  to  interest  or 
amuse  him.  Heavens!  what  a  motley  group  were  ac- 
customed, twice  in  the  week,  to  assemble  tliere!  the 
little  dining-parlor  seemed  a  human  oven;  and  it  must 
be  owned  that  Clarence  was  no  slight  magnet  of  attrac- 
tion to  the  female  part  of  the  guests.  Mrs.  Copperas's 
bosom  friend  in  especial,  the  accomplished  Miss  Barbara 
York,  darted  the  most  tender  glances  on  the  handsome 
young  stranger ;  but  whether  or  not  a  nose  remarkably 
prominent  and  long,  prevented  the  glances  from  taking 
full  eifect,  it  is  certain  that  Clarence  seldom  repaid  tliera 
with  that  affectionate  ardor  which  Miss  Barbara  York 
had  ventured  to  anticipate.  The  only  persons,  indeed, 
for  whom  he  felt  any  sympathetic  attraction,  were  of 
the  same  sex  as  himself.  The  one  was  Mr.  Talbot,  the 
old  gentleman  whom  Mrs.  Copperas  had  described  as  the 
perfect  courtier;  the  other,  a  young  artist  of  the  name 
of  Warner.  Talbot,  to  Clarence's  great  astonisliment 
(for  Mrs.  Copperas's  eulogy  liad  prepared  him  for  some- 


THE   DISOWNED.  91 

thing  eminently  displeasing),  was  a  man  of  birth,  for- 
tune, and  manners  peculiarly  graceful  and  attractive. 
It  is  true,  however,  that,  despite  of  his  vicinity,  and 
Mrs.  Copperas's  urgent  solicitations,  he  very  seldom 
honored  her  with  his  company,  and  he  always  cautiously 
sent  over  his  servant  in  the  morning  to  inquire  the 
names  and  number  of  her  expected  guests:  nor  was  he 
ever  known  to  share  the  plenteous  board  of  the  stock- 
jobber's lady  whenever  any  other  partaker  of  its  dainties, 
save  Clarence  and  the  young  artist,  was  present.  The 
latter  the  old  gentleman  really  liked;  and  as  for  one 
truly  well-born  and  well-bred,  —  there  is  no  vulgarity 
except  in  the  mind,  —  the  slender  means,  obscure  birth, 
and  struggling  profession  of  Warner,  were  circumstances 
which,  as  they  increased  the  merit  of  a  gentle  manner 
and  a  fine  mind,  spoke  rather  in  his  favor  than  the  re- 
verse. Mr.  Talbot  was  greatly  struck  by  Clarence  Lin- 
den's conversation  and  appearance ;  and  indeed  there  was 
in  Talbot's  taste  so  strong  a  bias  to  aristocratic  externals, 
that  Clarence's  air  alone  would  have  been  sufficient  to 
win  the  good  graces  of  a  man  who  had,  perhaps  more 
than  most  courtiers  of  his  time,  cultivated  the  arts  of 
manner  and  the  secrets  of  address. 

"You  will  call  upon  me  soon?  "  said  he  to  Clarence, 
when,  after  dining  one  day  with  the  Copperases  and 
their  inmate,  he  rose  to  return  home.  And  Clarence, 
delighted  with  the  urbanity  and  liveliness  of  his  new 
acquaintance,  readily  promised  that  he  would. 

Accordingly,  the  next  day,  Clarence  called  upon  Mr. 
Talbot.  The  house,  as  Mrs.  Copperas  had  before  said, 
adjoined  her  own,  and  was  only  separated  from  it  by  a 
garden.  It  was  a  dull  mansion  of  brick,  which  had 
disdained  tlie  frippery  of  paint  and  whitewashing,  and 
had  indeed  been  built  many  years  previously  to  the  erec- 


92  THE   DISOWNED. 

tion  of  tlip  modern  hahitations  which  surrounded  it.  It 
was,  therefore,  as  a  consequence  of  this  priority  of 
birth,  more  sombre  than  the  rest,  and  had  a  peculiarly 
forlorn  and  solitary  look.  As  Clarence  approached  the 
door,  he  was  struck  with  the  size  of  the  house,  —  it  was 
of  very  considerable  extent,  and  in  the  more  favorable 
situations  of  London  would  have  passed  for  a  very  desir- 
able and  spacious  tenement.  An  old  man, whose  accurate 
precision  of  dress  bespoke  the  tastes  of  the  master, 
opened  the  door,  and,  after  ushering  Clarence  through 
two  long,  and  to  his  surprise,  almost  splendidly- 
furnished  rooms,  led  him  into  a  third,  where,  seated  at 
a  small  writing-table,  he  found  Mr.  Talbot.  That 
person,  one  whom  Clarence  then  little  thought  would 
hereafter  exercise  no  small  influence  over  his  fate,  was 
of  a  figure  and  countenance  well  worthy  the  notice  of  a 
description. 

His  own  hair,  quite  white,  was  carefully  and  artifi- 
cially curled,  and  gave  a  Grecian  cast  to  features  whose 
original  delicacy,  and  exact,  though  small  proportions, 
not  even  age  could  destroy.  His  eyes  were  large,  black, 
and  sparkled  with  almost  youthful  vivacity;  and  his 
mouth,  which  was  the  best  feature  he  possessed,  devel- 
oped teeth,  white  and  even  as  rows  of  ivory.  Though 
small  and  somewhat  too  slender  in  the  proportions  of 
his  figure,  notliing  could  exceed  the  ease  and  the  grace 
of  his  motions  and  air;  and  his  dress,  though  singularly 
rich  in  its  materials,  eccentric  in  its  fashion,  and,  from 
its  evident  study,  unseemly  to  his  years,  served,  never- 
theless, to  render  rather  venerable  than  ridiculous  a 
mien  which  could  almost  have  carried  off  any  absurdity, 
and  which  the  fashion  of  the  garb  peculiarly  became. 
The  tout  ensemble  was  certainly  that  of  a  man  who  Avas 
still  vain   of   his  exterior,  and  conscious  of  its  effect; 


THE   DISOWNED.  93 

and  it  was  as  certainly  impossible  to  converse  with  Mr. 
Talbot  for  five  minutes,  without  merging  every  less  re- 
spectful impression  in  the  magical  fascination  of  his 
manner. 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Linden,"  said  Talbot,  rising,  "  for 
your  accepting  so  readily  an  old  man's  invitation.  If  I 
have  felt  pleasure  in  discovering  that  we  were  to  be 
neighbors,  you  may  judge  Avhat  that  pleasure  is  to-day 
at  finding  you  my  visitor. " 

Clarence,  who,  to  do  him  justice,  was  always  ready 
at  returning  a  fine  speech,  replied  in  a  similar  strain,  and 
the  conversation  flowed  on  agreeably  enough.  There 
was  more  than  a  moderate  collection  of  books  in  the 
room,  and  this  circumstance  led  Clarence  to  allude  to 
literary  subjects  ;  these  Mr.  Talbot  took  up  with  avidity, 
and  touched  with  a  light  but  graceful  criticism  upon 
many  of  the  then  modern,  and  some  of  the  older  writers. 
He  seemed  delighted  to  find  himself  understood  and 
appreciated  by  Clarence,  and  every  moment  of  Linden's 
visit  served  to  ripen  their  acquaintance  into  intimacy. 
At  length  they  talked  upon  Copperas  Bower  and  its 
inmates. 

"  You  will  find  your  host  and  hostess,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  "certainly  of  a  different  order  from  the  per- 
sons with  whom  it  is  easy  to  see  you  have  associated ; 
but,  at  your  happy  age,  a  year  or  two  may  be  very  well 
thrown  away  upon  observing  the  manners  and  customs 
of  those  whom,  in  later  life,  you  may  often  be  called 
upon  to  conciliate,  or  perhaps  to  control.  That  man 
will  never  be  a  perfect  gentleman  who  lives  only  Avith 
gentlemen.  To  be  a  man  of  the  world,  we  must  view 
that  world  in  every  grade ,  and  in  every  perspective.  In 
short,  the  most  practical  art  of  wisdom  is  that  Avhich 
extracts  from  things  the  very  quality  they  least  appear 


94  THE  DISOWNED. 

to  possess;  and  the  actor  in  the  world,  like  tlie  actor  on 
the  stage,  should  find  '  a  basket-hilted  sword  very  con- 
venient to  carry  milk  in.'  ^  As  for  me,  I  have  survived 
my  relations  and  friends.  I  cannot  keep  late  hours,  nor 
adhere  to  the  unhealthy  customs  of  good  society ;  nor  do 
I  think  that,  to  a  man  of  my  age  and  habits,  any  re- 
muneration would  adequately  repay  the  sacrifice  of 
health  or  comfort.  I  am,  therefore,  well  content  to 
sink  into  a  hermitage  in  an  obscvire  corner  of  this  great 
town,  and  only  occasionally  to  revive  my  '  past  remem- 
brances of  higher  state,'  by  admitting  a  few  old  acquain- 
tances to  drink  my  bachelor's  tea,  and  talk  over  the 
news  of  the  day.  Hence,  you  see,  Mr.  Linden,  I  pick 
up  two  or  three  novel  anecdotes  of  state  and  scandal, 
and  maintain  my  importance  at  Copperas  Bower  by 
retailing  them  second  hand.  Now  that  you  are  one  of 
the  inmates  of  that  abode,  I  shall  be  more  frequently  its 
guest.  By  the  by,  I  will  let  you  into  a  secret:  know 
that  I  am  somewhat  a  lover  of  the  marvellous,  and  like 
to  indulge  a  little  embellishing  exaggeration  in  any 
place  where  there  is  no  chance  of  finding  me  out.  Mind, 
therefore,  my  dear  Mr.  Linden,  that  you  take  no  ungen- 
erous advantage  of  this  confession;  but  suffer  me,  now 
and  then,  to  tell  my  stories  my  own  way,  even  when 
you  think  truth  would  require  me  to  tell  them  in 
another. " 

"Certainly,"  said  Clarence,  laughing;  "let  us  make 
an  agreement:  you  shall  tell  your  stories  as  you  please, 
if  you  will  grant  me  the  same  liberty  in  paying  my 
compliments;  and,  if  I  laugh  aloud  at  the  stories,  you 
shall  promise  me  not  to  laugh  aloud  at  the  compliments." 

"  It  is  a  bond ,"  said  Talbot ;  "  and  a  very  fit  exchange 
of  service  it  is.     It  will  be  a  problem  in  human  nature 

1  See  the  witty  inventory  of  a  player's  goods  in  the  "  Tatler." 


THE   DISOWNED.  95 

to  see  who  has  the  best  of  it:  j'ou  shall  pay  your  court 
by  flattering  the  people  present,  and  I  mine  by  abusing 
those  absent.  Now,  in  spite  of  your  youth  and  curling 
locks,  I  will  wager  that  I  succeed  the  best;  for  in 
vanity  there  is  so  great  a  mixture  of  envy,  that  no  com- 
pliment is  like  a  judicious  abuse,  —  to  enchant  your  ac- 
quaintance, ridicule  his  friends." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  "  this  oi^inion  of  yours,  is, 
I  trust,  a  little  in  the  French  School,  where  brilliancy 
is  more  studied  than  truth,  and  where  an  ill  opinion  of 
our  species  always  has  the  merit  of  passing  for 
profound. " 

Talbot  smiled,  and  shook  his  head.  "  Mj'  dear  young 
friend,"  said  he,  "  it  is  quite  right  that  you,  who  are 
coming  into  the  Avorld,  should  think  well  of  it;  and  it 
is  also  quite  right  that  I,  who  am  going  out  of  it,  should 
console  myself  by  trying  to  despise  it.  However,  let  me 
tell  you,  my  young  friend,  that  he  whose  opinion  of 
mankind  is  not  too  elevated,  will  always  be  the  most 
benevolent,  because  the  most  indulgent  to  those  errors 
incidental  to  human  imperfection:  to  place  our  nature 
in  too  flattering  a  view  is  only  to  court  disappointment, 
and  end  in  misanthropy.  The  man  who  sets  out  with 
expecting  to  find  all  his  fellow-creatures  heroes  of  virtue, 
will  conclude  by  condemning  them  as  monsters  of  vice; 
and,  on  the  contrary,  the  least  exacting  judge  of  actions 
will  be  the  most  lenient.  If  God,  in  his  own  perfec- 
tion, did  not  see  so  many  frailties  in  us,  think  you  he 
would  be  so  gracious  to  our  virtues  1  " 

"And  yet,"  said  Clarence,  "we  remark  every  day 
examples  of  the  highest  excellence. " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Talbot,  "  of  the  highest,  but  not  of  the 
most  constant  excellence.  He  knows  A'ery  little  of  the 
human  heart  who  imagines  we  cannot  do  a  good  action; 


96  THE   DISOWNED. 

but,  alas!  he  knows  still  less  of  it  who  supposes  we  can 
be  always  doing  good  actions.  In  exactly  the  same  ratio 
we  see  every  day  the  greatest  crimes  are  committed;  but 
we  find  no  wretch  so  depraved  as  to  be  always  com- 
mitting crimes.      Man  cannot  be  perfect  even  in  guilt." 

In  this  manner  Talbot  and  his  young  visitor  con- 
versed, till  Clarence,  after  a  stay  of  unwarrantable 
length,  rose  to  depart. 

"  Well,"  said  Talbot,  "  if  we  now  rightly  understand 
each  other,  we  shall  be  the  best  friends  in  the  world. 
As  we  shall  expect  great  things  from  each  other  some- 
times, we  will  have  no  scruple  in  exacting  an  heroic 
sacrifice  every  now  and  then ;  for  instance,  I  will  ask 
you  to  punish  yourself  by  an  occasional  tete-a-tete  with 
an  ancient  gentleman ;  and  as  we  can  also,  by  the  same 
reasoning,  pardon  great  faults  in  each  other,  if  they  are 
not  often  committed,  so  I  will  forgive  you  with  all  my 
heart  whenever  you  refuse  my  invitations,  if  you  do  not 
refuse  them  often.  And  now  farewell  till  we  meet 
again. " 

It  seemed  singular,  and  almost  unnatural  to  Linden, 
that  a  man  like  Talbot,  of  birth,  fortune,  and  great 
fastidiousness  of  taste  and  temper,  should  have  formed 
any  sort  of  acquaintance,  however  slight  and  distant, 
with  the  facetious  stock-jobber  and  his  wife;  but  the 
fact  is  easily  explained  by  a  reference  to  the  vanity 
which  we  shall  see  hereafter  made  the  ruling  passion 
of  Talbot's  nature.  This  vanity,  which,  branching 
forth  into  a  thousand  eccentricities,  displayed  itself  in 
the  singularity  of  his  dress,  the  studied  yet  graceful 
warmth  of  his  manner,  his  attention  to  the  minutiae  of 
life, — his  desire,  craving  and  insatiate,  to  receive  from 
every  one,  however  insignificant,  his  oholum  of  admira- 
tion; this  vanity,  once  llattcred  by  the  obseijuious  horn- 


THE   DISOWNED.  97 

age  it  obtained  from  the  wonder  and  reverence  of  the 
Copperases,  reconciled  his  taste  to  the  disgust  it  so  fre- 
quently and  necessarily  conceived;  and,  having  in  great 
measure  resigned  his  former  acquaintance,  and  wholly 
outlived  his  friends,  he  was  contented  to  purchase  the 
applause  which  had  become  to  him  a  necessary  of  life,  at 
the  humble  market  more  immediately  at  his  command. 

There  is  no  dilemma  in  which  vanity  cannot  find  an 
expedient  to  develop  its  form,  —  no  stream  of  circum- 
stances in  which  its  buoyant  and  light  nature  will  not 
rise  to  float  upon  the  surface.  And  its  ingenuity  is  as 
fertile  as  that  of  the  player  who  (his  wardrobe  allowing 
him  no  other  method  of  playing  the  fop)  could  still 
exhibit  the  prevalent  passion  for  distinction  by  wearing 
stockiuss  of  dilierent  colors. 


VOL.  I.  —  7 


98  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


Who  dares 
Interpret  then  my  life  for  me,  as  't  were 
One  of  the  uudistiuguishable  many  ? 

Colekidge's  Wallenstein. 

The  first  time  Clarence  liad  observed  the  young  artist, 
he  had  taken  a  deep  interest  in  his  appearance.  Pale, 
thin,  undersized,  and  slightly  deformed,  the  sanctifying 
mind  still  shed  over  the  humble  frame  a  spell  more 
powerful  than  beauty.  Absent  in  manner,  melancholy 
in  air,  and  never  conversing  except  upon  subjects  upon 
•which  his  imagination  was  excited,  there  was  yet  a  gen- 
tleness about  him  which  could  not  fail  to  conciliate  and 
prepossess;  nor  did  Clarence  omit  any  opportunity  to 
soften  his  reserve,  and  wind  himself  into  his  more  in- 
timate acquaintance.  Warner,  the  only  support  of  an 
aged  and  infirm  grandmother  (who  had  survived  her 
immediate  children),  was  distantly  related  to  Mrs.  Cop- 
peras; and  that  lady  extended  to  him,  with  ostentatious 
benevolence,  her  favor  and  support.  It  is  true  that  she 
did  not  injpoverish  the  young  Adolphus  to  enrich  her 
kinsman,  but  she  allowed  him  a  seat  at  her  hospitable 
board,  whenever  it  was  not  otherwise  filled;  and  all 
that  she  demanded  in  return  was  a  picture  of  herself, 
another  of  Mr.  Copperas,  a  third  of  IMaster  Adolphus, 
a  fourth  of  the  black  cat,  and  from  time  to  time  sundry 
other  lesser  productions  of  his  genius,  of  which,  through 
the  agency  of  Mr.  Brown,  she  secretly  disposed  at  a  price 
that  sufficiently  remunerated  her  for  whatever  havoc  the 
slender  appetite  of  the  young  painter  was  able  to  effect. 


THE  DISOWNED.  99 

By  this  arrangement,  Clarence  had  many  opportuni- 
ties of  gaining  that  intimacy  with  Warner  which  had 
become  to  him  an  object;  and  though  the  painter,  con- 
stitutionally difl&dent  and  shy,  was  at  first  averse  to,  and 
even  awed  by,  the  ease,  boldness,  fluent  speech,  and 
confident  address  of  a  man  much  yoi;nger  than  himself, 
yet  at  last  he  could  not  resist  being  decoyed  into  famil- 
iarity ;  and  the  youthful  pair  gradually  advanced  from 
companionship  into  friendship.  There  was  a  striking 
contrast  between  the  two:  Clarence  was  bold  and  frank, 
Warner  close  and  timid.  Both  had  superior  abilities, 
—  but  the  abilities  of  Clarence  were  for  action ,  those  of 
Warner  for  art;  both  were  ambitious,  but  the  ambition 
of  Clarence  was  that  of  circumstances  rather  than  char- 
acter; compelled  to  carve  his  own  fortunes  without 
sympathy  or  aid,  he  braced  his  mind  to  the  effort, 
though  naturally  too  gay  for  the  austerity  and  too  genial 
for  the  selfishness  of  ambition.  But  the  very  essence 
of  Warner's  nature  was  the  feverish  desire  of  fame;  it 
poured  through  his  veins  like  lava ;  it  preyed  as  a  worm 
upon  his  cheek ;  it  corroded  his  natural  sleep ;  it  black- 
ened the  color  of  his  thoughts;  it  shut  out,  as  with  an 
impenetrable  wall,  the  wholesome  energies  and  enjoy- 
ments and  objects  of  living  men;  and,  taking  from  him 
all  the  vividness  of  the  present,  all  the  tenderness  of  the 
past,  constrained  his  heart  to  dwell  forever  and  forever 
amidst  the  dim  and  shadowy  chimeras  of  a  future  he  was 
fated  never  to  enjoy. 

But  these  difTerences  of  character,  so  far  from  dis- 
turbing, rather  cemented  their  friendship;  and  while 
Warner  (notwithstanding  his  advantage  of  age)  paid 
involuntary  deference  to  the  stronger  character  of  Clar- 
ence, he,  in  his  turn,  derived  that  species  of  pleasure 
by  which  he  was  most  gratified,  from  the  affectionate 


100  THE   DISOWNED. 

and  unenvious  interest  Clarence  took  in  his  speculations 
of  future  distinction,  and  the  unwearying  admiration 
with  which  he  would  sit  by  his  side  and  watch  the 
colors  start  from  the  canvas  beneath  the  real,  though 
uncultured  genius  of  the  youthful  painter.  Hitherto 
Warner  had  bounded  his  attempts  to  some  of  the  lesser 
efforts  of  the  art;  he  had  now  yielded  to  the  urgent 
enthusiasm  of  his  nature,  and  conceived  the  plan  of  an 
historical  picture.  Oh!  what  sleepless  nights,  what 
struggles  of  the  teeming  fancy  with  the  dense  brain, 
what  labors  of  the  untiring  thought,  wearing  and  intense 
as  disease  itself,  did  it  cost  the  ambitious  artist  to  work 
out  in  the  stillness  of  his  soul,  and  from  its  confused 
and  conflicting  images,  the  design  of  this  long-meditated 
and  idolized  performance.  But  when  it  was  designed ; 
when  shape  upon  shape  grew  and  swelled,  and  glowed 
from  the  darkness  of  previous  thought  upon  the  painter's 
mind;  when,  shutting  his  eyes  in  the  very  credulity  of 
delight,  the  whole  work  arose  before  him,  glossy  with 
its  fresh  hues,  bright,  completed,  faultless,  arrayed,  as 
it  were,  and  decked  out  for  immortality, — oh!  then 
what  a  full  and  gushing  moment  of  rapture  broke  like 
a  released  stream  upon  his  soul!  What  a  recompense 
for  wasted  years,  health,  and  hope!  What  a  coronal  to 
the  visions  and  transports  of  genius;  brief,  it  is  true, 
but  how  steeped  in  the  very  halo  of  a  light  that  might 
well  be  deemed  the  glory  of  heaven ! 

But  the  vision  fades,  the  gorgeous  shapes  sweep  on 
into  darkness,  and,  waking  from  his  reverie,  the  artist 
sees  before  him  only  the  dull  walls  of  his  narrow  cham- 
ber; the  canvas  stretched  a  blank  upon  its  frame;  the 
works,  maimed,  crude,  unfinished,  of  an  inexperienced 
hand,  lying  idly  around;  and  feels  himself  —  himself, 
but  one  moment  before  the  creator  of  a  world  of  wonders, 


THE   DISOWNED.  101 

the  master  spirit  of  shapes  glorious  and  majestical  be- 
yond the  shapes  of  men  —  dashed  down  from  his  mo- 
mentary height,  and  despoiled  both  of  his  sorcery  and 
his  throne. 

It  was  just  in  such  a  moment  that  Warner,  starting 
up,  saw  Linden  (who  had  silently  entered  his  room; 
standing  motionless  before  him. 

"Oh!  Linden,"  said  the  artist,  "I  have  had  so 
superb  a  dream,  — a  dream  which,  though  I  have  before 
snatched  some  such  vision  by  fits  and  glimpses,  I 
never  beheld  so  realized,  so  perfect  as  now :  and  —  but 
you  shall  see,  you  shall  judge  for  yourself;  I  will 
sketch  out  the  design  for  you;"  and  with  a  piece  of 
chalk,  and  a  rapid  hand,  Warner  conveyed  to  Linden 
the  outline  of  his  conception.  His  young  friend  was 
eager  in  his  praise  and  his  predictions  of  renown,  and 
Warner  listened  to  him  with  a  fondness  which  spread 
over  his  pale  cheek  a  richer  Hush  than  lover  ever  caught 
from  the  whispers  of  his  beloved. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  as  he  rose,  and  his  sunken  and  small 
eye  flashed  out  with  a  feverish  brightness,  —  "  yes,  if  my 
hand  does  not  fail  my  thought,  it  shall  rival  even  —  " 
Here  the  young  painter  stopped  short,  abashed  at  that 
indiscretion  of  enthusiasm  about  to  utter  to  another  the 
hoarded  vanities  hitherto  locked  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
as  a  sealed  secret,  almost  from  himself. 

"  But  come,"  said  Clarence,  affectionately,  "  your  hand 
is  feverish  and  dry,  and  of  late  you  have  seemed  more 
languid  than  you  were  wont,  — come,  Warner,  you  want 
exercise ;  it  is  a  beautiful  evening,  and  you  shall  explain 
your  picture  still  farther  to  me  as  we  walk." 

Accustomed  to  yield  to  Clarence,  Warner  mechani- 
cally and  abstractedly  obeyed;  they  walked  out  into  the 
open  streets. 


102  THE   DISOWNED. 

"Look  around  us,"  said  Warner,  pausing,  —  "look 
among  this  toiling,  and  busy,  and  sordid  mass  of  beings, 
who  claim  with  us  the  fellowship  of  clay.  The  poor 
labor,  the  rich  feast;  the  only  distinction  between  them 
is  that  of  the  insect  and  the  brute:  like  them  they  fulfil 
the  same  end,  and  share  the  same  oblivion,  — they  die, 
a  new  race  springs  up,  and  the  very  grass  upon  their 
graves  fades  not  so  soon  as  their  memory.  AVho  that 
is  conscious  of  a  higher  nature  would  not  pine  and  fret 
himself  away  to  be  confounded  with  these  1  Who  would 
not  burn,  and  sicken,  and  parch  with  a  delirious  longing 
to  divorce  themselves  from  so  vile  a  herd  ?  What  have 
their  petty  pleasures  and  their  mean  aims  to  atone  for 
the  abasement  of  grinding  down  our  spirits  to  their 
level?  Is  not  the  distinction  from  their  blended  and 
common  name  a  sufficient  recompense  for  all  that  am- 
bition suffers  or  foregoes?  Oh,  for  one  brief  hour  (I 
ask  no  more)  of  living  honor,  one  feeling  of  conscious, 
unfearing  certainty,  that  fame  has  conquered  death; 
and  then  for  this  humble  and  impotent  clay,  this  drag 
on  the  spirit  which  it  does  not  assist  but  fetter,  this 
wretched  machine  of  pains  and  aches  and  feverish  throb- 
bings  and  vexed  inquietudes,  why,  let  the  worms  con- 
sume it,  and  the  grave  hide,  —  for  Fame  there  is  no 
grave. " 

At  that  moment  one  of  those  unfortunate  women  who 
earn  their  polluted  sustenance  by  becoming  the  hypo- 
crites of  passion,  abruptly  accosted  them. 

"Miserable  wretch!  "  said  Warner,  loathingly,  as  he 
pushed  her  aside;  but  Clarence,  with  a  kindlier  feeling, 
noticed  that  her  haggard  cheek  was  wet  with  tears,  and 
that  her  frame,  weak  and  trembling,  could  scarcely  sup- 
port itself;  he,  therefore,  with  that  promptitude  of 
charity   which   gives   ere    it    discriminates,    put    some 


THE   DISOWNED.  103 

pecuniary  assistance  in  her  hand,  and  joined  his 
comrade. 

"  You  wouki  not  have  spoken  so  tauntingly  to  the  poor 
girl  had  you  remarked  her  distress,"  said  Clarence. 

"  And  why,"  said  Warner,  mournfully,  —  "  why  be  so 
cruel  as  to  prolong,  even  for  a  few  hours,  an  existence 
which  mercy  would  only  seek  to  bring  nearer  to  the 
tomb?  That  unfortunate  is  but  one  of  the  herd,  one  of 
the  victims  to  pleasures  which  debase  by  their  progress, 
and  ruin  by  their  end.  Yet  perhaps  she  is  not  worse 
than  the  usual  followers  of  love:  of  love,  that  passion 
the  most  worshipped,  yet  the  least  divine,  — selfish  and 
exacting,  —  drawing  its  aliment  from  destruction,  and 
its  very  nature  from  tears." 

"  Nay,"  said  Clarence,  "  you  confound  the  two  loves, 
the  Eros  and  the  Anteros,  gods  whom  my  good  tutor 
was  wont  so  sedulously  to  distinguish;  you  surely  do 
not  inveigh  thus  against  all  love  1  " 

"I  cry  you  mercy,"  said  Warner,  with  something  of 
earcasm  in  his  pensiveness  of  tone.  "  We  must  not 
dispute,  so  I  will  hold  my  peace;  but  make  love  all 
you  will,  what  are  the  false  smiles  of  a  lip  which  a  few 
years  can  blight  as  an  autumn  leaf?  What  the  homage 
of  a  heart  as  feeble  and  mortal  as  your  own?  Why,  I, 
with  a  few  strokes  of  a  little  hair  and  an  idle  mixture 
of  worthless  colors  will  create  a  beauty  in  whose  mouth 
there  shall  be  no  hollowness,  in  whose  lip  there  shall  be 
no  fading,  —  there,  in  your  admiration  you  shall  have 
no  need  of  flattery,  and  no  fear  of  falsehood ;  you  shall 
not  be  stung  with  jealousy,  nor  maddened  with  treach- 
ery; nor  watch  with  a  breaking  heart  over  waning 
bloom,  and  departing  health,  till  the  grave  open,  and 
your  perisiiable  paradise  '\b  not.  ISTo;  the  mimic  work 
is  mightier  than  the   original,  for  it  outlasts  it;    your 


104  THE   DISOWNED. 

love  cannot  wither  it,  or  your  desertion  destroy,  —  your 
very  death,  as  the  being  who  called  it  into  life,  only 
stamps  it  with  a  holier  value." 

"  And  so  then,"  said  Clarence,  "you  would  seriously 
relinquish,  for  the  mute  copy  of  the  mere  features,  those 
affections  which  no  painting  can  express  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  the  painter,  with  an  energy  unusual  to  his 
quiet  manner,  and  slightly  wandering  in  his  answer 
from  Clarence's  remark,  —  "  ay,  one  serves  not  two  mis- 
tresses :  mine  is  the  glory  of  my  art.  Oh !  what  are  the 
cold  shapes  of  this  tame  earth ,  where  the  footsteps  of  the 
gods  have  vanished,  and  left  no  trace,  —  the  blemished 
forms,  the  debased  brows,  and  the  jarring  features,  to 
the  glorious  and  gorgeous  images  which  I  can  conjure 
up  at  my  will?  Away  with  human  beauties,  to  him 
whose  nights  are  haunted  with  the  forms  of  angels  and 
•wanderers  from  the  stars,  the  spirits  of  all  things  lovely 
and  exalted  in  the  universe:  the  universe  as  it  rvas^  — 
when  to  fountain,  and  stream,  and  hill,  and  to  every  tree 
which  the  summer  clothed,  was  allotted  the  vigil  of  a 
Nymph!  —  when  through  glade  and  by  waterfall,  at 
glossy  noontide,  or  under  the  silver  stars,  the  forms  of 
Godhead  and  Spirit  were  seen  to  walk ;  when  the  sculptor 
modelled  his  mighty  work  from  the  beauty  and  strength 
of  Heaven,  and  the  poet  lay  in  the  shade  to  dream  of 
the  Naiad  and  the  Faun,  and  the  Olympian  dwellers 
whom  he  waked  in  rapture  to  behold ;  and  the  painter,  not 
as  now,  shaping  from  shadow  and  in  solitude  the  dim 
glories  of  his  heart,  cauglit  at  once  his  inspiration  from 
the  glow  of  earth  and  its  living  wanderers,  and,  lo,  the 
canvas  breathed !  Oh!  wliat  are  the  dull  realities  and 
the  abortive  ofTspring  of  tliis  altered  and  humbled  world 
—  the  world  of  meaner  and  dwarfish  men  —  to  him  whose 
realms  are  peopled  with  visions  like  these  %  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  105 

And  the  artist,  whose  ardor,  long  excited,  and  pent 
within,  had  at  last  thus  audibly,  and  to  Clarence's 
astonishment,  burst  forth,  paused  as  if  to  recall  himself 
from  his  wandering  enthusiasm.  Such  moments  of  ex- 
citement were,  indeed,  rare  with  him,  except  when 
utterly  alone,  and  even  then,  were  almost  invariably 
followed  by  that  depression  of  spirit  by  which  all  over- 
wrought susceptibility  is  succeeded.  A  change  came 
over  his  face,  like  that  of  a  cloud  when  the  sunbeam 
which  gilded,  leaves  it,  and,  with  a  slight  sigh  and  a 
subdued  tone ,  he  resumed :  — 

"  So,  my  friend,  you  see  what  our  art  can  do  even  for 
the  humblest  professor,  when  I,  a  poor,  friendless, 
patronless  artist,  can  thus  indulge  myself  by  forgetting 
the  present.  But  I  have  not  yet  explained  to  you  the 
attitude  of  my  principal  figure ;  "  and  Warner  proceeded 
once  more  to  detail  the  particulars  of  his  intended 
picture.  It  must  be  confessed  that  he  had  chosen  a 
line,  though  an  arduous  subject:  it  was  the  "Trial  of 
Charles  I.  ;  "  and  as  the  painter,  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
his  profession  and  the  eloquence  peculiar  to  himself, 
dwelt  upon  the  various  expressions  of  the  various  forms 
which  that  extraordinary  judgment-court  afforded,  no 
wonder  that  Clarence  forgot,  with  the  artist  himself, 
the  disadvantages  Warner  had  to  encounter,  in  the  in- 
experience of  an  unregulated  taste,  and  an  imperfect 
professional  education. 


106  THE    DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

All  manners  take  a  tincture  from  our  own, 
Or  come  discolored  through  our  passions  shown. 

I'OPE. 

What !  give  up  lihcrty,  property,  and,  as  the  "  Gazetteer  "  says,  lie 
down  to  be  saddled  with  wooden  shoes.  —  Vicar  of  Wakejield. 

There  was  something  in  the  melancholy  and  reflective 
character  of  Warner  resembling  that  of  Mordaunt.  Had 
they  lived  in  these  days,  perhaps  both  the  artist  and 
the  philosopher  had  been  poets.  But  (with  regard  to 
the  latter)  at  that  time  poetry  was  not  the  customary 
vent  for  deep  thought  or  passionate  feeling.  Gray,  it 
is  true,  though  unjustly  condemned  as  artificial  and 
meretricious  in  his  style,  had  infused  into  the  scanty 
works  which  he  has  bequeathed  to  immortality,  a  pathos 
and  a  richness  foreign  to  the  literature  of  the  age ;  and, 
subsequently.  Goldsmith,  in  the  affecting,  yet  somewhat 
enervate  simplicity  of  his  verse,  had  obtained  for  poetry 
a  brief  respite  from  a  school  at  once  declamatory  and 
powerless,  and  led  her  forth  for  a  "  Sunshine  Holiday, " 
into  the  village  green,  and  under  the  hawthorn  shade. 
But,  though  the  softer  and  meeker  feelings  had  strug- 
gled into  a  partial  and  occasional  vent,  those  which  par- 
took more  of  passion  and  of  thought,  the  deep,  the  wild, 
the  fervid,  were  still  without  "  the  music  of  a  voice. " 
For  the  after  century  it  was  reserved  to  restore  what  we 
may  be  permitted  to  call  the  spirit  of  our  national  litera- 
ture; to  forsake  the  clhqnayit  of  the  French  mimickers 
of  classic  gold;  to  exchange  a  thrice-adulterated  Hippo- 


THE   DISOWNED.  107 

crene  for  the  pure  well  of  Shakespeare  and  of  nature ;  to 
clothe  philosophy  in  the  gorgeous  and  solemn  majesty  of 
appropriate  music ;  and  to  invest  passion  with  a  language 
as  burning  as  its  thought  and  rapid  as  its  impulse.  At 
that  time  reflection  found  its  natural  channel  in  meta- 
physical inquiry  or  political  speculation ;  both  valuable, 
perhaps,  but  neither  profound.  It  was  a  bold,  and  a  free, 
and  an  inquisitive  age,  but  not  one  in  which  thought  ran 
over  its  set  and  stationary  banks,  and  watered  even  the 
common  flowers  of  verse;  not  one  in  which  Lucretius 
could  have  embodied  the  dreams  of  Epicurus ;  Shake- 
speare lavished  the  mines  of  a  superhuman  wisdom  upon 
his  fairy  palaces  and  enchanted  isles ;  or  the  Beautifier  ^ 
of  this  common  earth  have  called  forth, — 

The  motion  of  the  spirit  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought; 

or  Disappointment  and  Satiety  have  hallowed  their  hu- 
man griefs  by  a  pathos  wrought  from  whatever  is  mag- 
nificent, and  grand,  and  lovely  in  the  unknown  universe ; 
or  the  speculations  of  a  great,  but  visionary,^  mind  have 
raised,  upon  subtlety  and  doubt,  a  vast  and  irregular 
pile  of  verse,  full  of  dim-lighted  cells,  and  winding  gal- 
leries, in  which  what  treasures  lie  concealed!  That  was 
an  age  in  which  poetry  took  one  path,  and  contemplation 
another:  those  who  were  addicted  to  the  latter  pursued 
it  in  its  orthodox  roads ;  and  many,  whom  nature,  per- 
haps, intended  for  poets,  the  wizard  custom  converted 
into  speculators  or  critics. 

It  was  this  which  gave  to  Algernon's  studies  their  pe- 
culiar hue ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  taste  for  the  fine 
arts  which  then  universally  prevailed,  directed  to  the 
creations  of  painting,  rather  than  those  of  poetry,  more 

^  Wordsworth.  *  Shelley. 


108  THE   DISOWNED. 

really  congenial  to  his  powers,  the  intense  imagination 
and  passion  for  glory  which  marked  and  pervaded  the 
character  of  the  artist. 

But,  as  we  have  seen  that  that  passion  for  glory  made 
the  great  characteristic  difference  between  Clarence  and 
Warner,  so  also  did  that  passion  terminate  any  resem- 
blance which  Warner  bore  to  Algernon  Mordamit.  With 
the  former,  a  rank  and  unwholesome  plant,  it  grew  up 
to  the  exclusion  of  all  else ;  with  the  latter,  subdued  and 
regulated,  it  sheltered,  not  withered  the  virtues  by 
which  it  was  surrounded.  With  Warner,  ambition  Avas 
a  passionate  desire  to  separate  himself  by  fame  from 
the  herd  of  other  men;  with  Mordaunt,  to  bind  himself 
by  charity  yet  closer  to  his  kind :  with  the  one  it  pro- 
duced a  disgust  to  his  species;  with  the  other,  a  pity 
and  a  love :  with  the  one,  power  Avas  the  badge  of  distinc- 
tion ;  with  the  other,  the  means  to  bless !  But  our  story 
lingers. 

It  was  now  the  custom  of  Warner  to  spend  the  whole 
day  at  his  work,  and  wander  out  with  Clarence,  when 
the  evening  darkened,  to  snatch  a  brief  respite  of  exer- 
cise and  air.  Often,  along  the  lighted  and  populous 
streets,  would  the  two  young  and  unfriended  competitors 
for  this  world's  high  places,  roam  with  the  various  crowd, 
moralizing  as  they  went,  or  holding  dim  conjecture  upon 
their  destinies  to  be.  And  often  would  they  linger  be- 
neath the  portico  of  some  house  where,  "  haunted  Avith 
great  resort,"  Pleasure  and  Pomp  held  their  nightly 
revels,  to  listen  to  the  music  that,  through  the  open  Avin- 
doAvs,  stole  over  the  rare  exotics  Avith  Avhich  Avealth 
mimics  the  southern  scents,  and  floated,  mellowing  by 
distance,  along  the  unAvorthy  streets ;  and  Avhile  they 
stood  together,  silent,  and  eacli  feeding  iipon  separate 
thoughts,  the  artist's  pale  lip  Avould  curl  with  scorn,  us 


THE   DISOWNED.  109 

he  heard  the  laiigh  and  the  sounds  of  a  frivolous  and 
hollow  mirth  ring  from  the  crowd  within,  and  startle  the 
air  from  the  silver  spell  which  music  had  laid  upon  it. 
"These,"  would  he  say  to  Clarence, —  "these  are  the 
dupes  of  the  same  fever  as  ourselves :  like  us,  they  strive, 
and  toil,  and  vex  their  little  lives  for  a  distinction  from 
their  race.  Amhition  comes  to  them,  as  to  all ;  but  they 
throw  for  a  different  prize  than  we  do:  theirs  is  the 
honor  of  a  day ,  ours  is  immortality ;  yet  they  take  the 
same  labor,  and  are  consumed  by  the  same  care.  And, 
fools  that  they  are,  with  their  gilded  names  and  their 
gaudy  trappings,  they  would  shrink  in  disdain  from  that 
comparison  with  us  which  we,  with  a  juster  fastidious- 
ness, blush   at  this  moment  to  aclaiowledge." 

From  these  scenes  they  would  rove  on,  and,  both  de- 
lightuig  in  contrast,  enter  some  squalid  and  obscure 
quarter  of  the  city.  There,  one  night,  quiet  observers 
of  their  kind,  they  paused  beside  a  group  congregated 
together  by  some  common  cause  of  obscene  merriment  or 
unholy  fellowship, —  a  group  on  which  low  vice  had  set 
her  sordid  and  hideous  stamp,  —  to  gaze  and  draw  strange 
humors  or  a  motley  moral  from  that  depth  and  ferment 
of  human  nature  into  whose  sink  the  thousand  streams 
of  civilization  had  poured  their  dregs  and  offal. 

"  You  survey  these, "  said  the  painter,  marking  each 
with  the  curious  eye  of  his  profession :  "  they  are  a  base 
horde,  it  is  true ;  but  they  have  their  thirst  of  fame, 
their  aspirations  even  in  the  abyss  of  crime,  or  the 
loathsomeness  of  famished  want.  Down  in  yon  cellar, 
where  a  farthing  rushlight  glimmers  upon  haggard 
cheeks,  distorted  with  the  idiotcy  of  drink ;  there  in  that 
foul  attic,  from  whose  casement  you  see  the  beggar's 
rags  hang  to  dry,  or  rather  to  crumble  in  the  reeking  and 
filthy  air;  farther  on,   within  those  walls  which,  black 


110  THE   DISOWNED. 

and  heavy  as  the  hearts  they  hide,  close  our  miserable 
prospect;  there,  even  there,  in  the  mildewed  dungeon, 
in  the  felon's  cell,  on  the  very  scaffold  self, —  Ambition 
hiigs  her  own  hope,  or  scowls  upon  her  own  despair. 
Yes!  the  inmates  of  those  walls  had  their  perilous  game 
of  honor,  their  '  hazard  of  the  die, '  in  which  vice  Avas 
triumph,  and  infamy  success.  We  do  but  share  their 
passion,  though  we   direct  it  to  a  better  object." 

Pausing  for  a  moment,  as  his  thoughts  flowed  into  a 
somewhat  different  channel  of  his  character,  Warner 
continued,  "  We  have  now  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  two 
great  divisions  of  mankind :  they  who  riot  in  palaces,  and 
they  who  make  mirth  hideous  in  rags  and  hovels;  own 
that  it  is  but  a  poor  survey  in  either.  Can  we  be  con- 
temptible with  these,  or  loathsome  with  those?  Or 
rather  have  we  not  a  nobler  spark  within  us  which 
we  have  but  to  fan  into  a  flame  that  shall  burn  forever, 
when  these  miserable  meteors  sink  into  the  corruption 
from  which  they  rise  1  " 

"  But, "  observed  Clarence,  "  these  are  the  two  ex- 
tremes: the  pinnacle  of  civilization  too  worn  and  bare 
for  any  more  noble  and  vigorous  fruit,  and  the  base  upon 
which  the  clovid  descends  in  rain  and  storm.  Look  to 
the  central  portion  of  society;  there  the  soil  is  more 
genial,  and  its  produce  more  rich." 

"  Is  it  so,  in  truth  ?  "  answered  Warner ;  "  pardon  me, 
I  believe  not ;  the  middling  classes  are  as  human  as  the 
rest.  There  is  the  region,  —  the  heart  of  Avarice, — 
systematized,  spreading,  rotting,  the  very  fungus  and 
leprosy  of  social  states;  suspicion,  craft,  hypocrisy,  ser- 
vility to  the  great,  oppression  to  the  low,  the  waxlike 
mimicry  of  courtly  vices,  the  hardness  of  flint  to  humble 
woes;  thought,  feeling,  the  faculties  and  impulses  of 
man,  all  ulcered  into  one  great  canker, — gain;  —  these 


THE   DISOWNED.  Ill 

make  the  general  character  of  the  middling  class,  the 
unleavened  mass  of  that  mediocrity  which  it  has  been 
the  wisdom  of  the  shallow  to  applaud.  Pah!  we  too  are 
of  this  class,  this  potter's  earth,  this  paltry  mixture  of 
mud  and  stone ;  but  ic&,  my  friend,  we  wiU  knead  gold 
into  our  clay." 

"  But  look, "  said  Clarence,  pointing  to  the  group  be- 
fore them,  — "  look :  yon  wretched  mother,  whose  voice 
an  instant  ago  uttered  the  coarsest  accents  of  maudlin 
and  intoxicated  prostitution,  is  noAV  fostering  her  infant, 
with  a  fondness  stamped  i;pon  her  worn  cheek  and 
hollow  eye  which  might  shame  the  nice  maternity  of 
nobles;  and  there,  too,  yon  wretch  whom,  in  the  reck- 
less efirontery  of  hardened  abandonment,  we  ourselves 
heard  a  few  minutes  since  boast  of  his  dexterity  in  theft, 
and  openly  exhibit  his  token,  —  look,  he  is  now,  with  a 
Samaritan's  own  charity,  giving  the  very  goods  for  which 
his  miserable  life  was  risked  to  that  attenuated  and 
starving  stripling!  No,  Warner,  no!  even  this  mass  is 
not  unleavened.  The  vilest  infamy  is  not  too  deep  for 
the  Seraph  Virtue  to  descend  and  illumine  its  abyss !  " 

"  Out  on  the  weak  fools !  "  said  the  artist,  bitterly : 
"  it  would  be  something,  if  they  could  be  consistent  even 
in  crime!  "  and,  placing  his  arm  in  Linden's,  he  drew 
him  away. 

As  the  picture  grew  beneath  the  painter's  hand, 
Clarence  Avas  much  struck  with  the  outline  and  expres- 
sion of  countenance  given  to  the  regicide  Bradshaw. 

"  They  are  but  an  imperfect  copy  of  the  living  origi- 
nal from  whom  I  have  borrowed  them,"  said  Warner, 
in  answer  to  Clarence's  remark  upon  the  stermiess  of  the 
features.  "  But  that  original,  a  relation  of  mine,  is 
coming  here   to-day,  —  you   shall   see  him." 

While  Warner  was  yet  speaking,  the  person  in  ques- 


112  THE   DISOWNED. 

tion  entered.  His  were,  indeed,  tlie  form  and  face 
wortliy  to  be  seized  by  the  painter.  Tlie  peculiarity  of 
his  character  made  him  affect  a  plainness  of  dress  mi- 
usual  to  the  day,  and  approaching  to  the  simplicity,  but 
not  the  neatness,  of  Quakerism.  His  hair  —  then,  with 
all  the  better  ranks,  a  principal  object  of  cultivation  — 
was  wild,  dishevelled,  and,  in  wiry  flakes  of  the  sablest 
hue,  rose  abruptly  from  a  forehead  on  which  either 
thought  or  passion  had  written  its  annals  with  an  iron 
pen;  the  lower  part  of  the  brow,  which  overhung  the 
eye,  was  singularly  sharp  and  prominent;  while  the  lines, 
or  rather  furrows,  traced  under  the  eyes  and  nostrils, 
spoke  somewhat  of  exhaustion  and  interntil  fatigue.  But 
this  expression  was  contrasted  and  contradicted  by  the- 
firmly-compressed  lip ;  the  lighted,  steady,  stern  eye ;  the 
resolute  and  even  stubborn  front,  joined  to  proportionr 
strikingly  athletic,  and  a  stature  of  uncommon  height. 

"  Well,  Wolfe, "  said  the  young  painter  to  the  person 
we  have  described,  "  it  is  indeed  a  kiiadness  to  give  me  a 
second  sitting." 

"  Tush,  boy !  "  answered  Wolfe :  "  all  men  have  theii 
vain  points,  and  I  own  that  I  am  not  ill  pleased  that 
these  rugged  features  should  be  assigned,  even  in  fancy, 
to  one  of  the  noblest  of  those  men  who  judged  the 
mightiest  cause  in  which  a  country  Avas  ever  plaintiff,  a 
tyrant  criminal,  and  a  world  witness!  " 

While  Wolfe  was  yet  speaking,  his  countenance,  so 
naturally  harsh,  took  a  yet  sterner  aspect,  and  the  artist, 
by  a  happy  touch,  succeeded  in  transferring  it  to  the 
canvas. 

"  But,  after  all, "  continued  Wolfe,  "  it  shames  me  to 
lend  aid  to  an  art  frivolous  in  itself,  and  almost  culpable 
in  times  when  Freedom  wants  the  head  to  design,  and, 
perhaps,  the  hand  to  execute  far  other  and  nobler  works 


THE   DISOWNED.  113 

than  the  blazoning   of  her   past  deeds  upon  perishable 
canvas. " 

A  momentary  anger  at  the  slight  put  upon  his  art 
crossed  the  pale  brow  of  the  artist ;  but  he  remembered 
the  character  of  the  man,  and  contmued  his  work  in 
silence. 

"  You  consider  then,  sir,  that  these  are  times  in  which 
liberty  is  attacked  1  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Attacked  1"  repeated  Wolfe,  — "attacked!"  and 
then  suddenly  sinking  his  voice  into  a  sort  of  sneer; 
"  why,  since  the  event  which  this  painting  is  designed  to 
commemorate,  —  I  know  not  if  we  have  ever  had  one 
solitary  gleam  of  liberty  break  along  the  great  chaos  of 
jarring  prejudice  and  barbarous  law  which  we  term, 
forsooth,  a  glorious  constitution.  Liberty  attacked!  no, 
boy,  —  but  it  is  a  time  when  liberty  may  be  gained. " 

Perfectly  unacquainted  with  the  excited  politics  of 
the  day,  or  the  growing  and  mighty  spirit  which  then 
stirred  through  the  minds  of  men,  Clarence  remained 
silent;  but  his  evident  attention  flattered  the  fierce 
republican,    and   he  proceeded. 

"  Ay, "  he  said  slowly,  and  as  if  drinking  in  a  deep 
and  stern  joy  from  his  conviction  in  the  truth  of  the 
words  he  uttered, —  "ay,  I  have  wandered  over  the  face 
of  the  earth,  and  I  have  warmed  my  soul  at  the  fires 
which  lay  hidden  under  its  quiet  surface ;  I  have  been  in 
the  city  and  the  desert,  —  the  herded  and  banded  crimes 
of  the  Old  World,  and  the  scattered,  but  bold  hearts 
which  are  found  among  the  savannahs  of  the  New,  — 
and  in  either  I  have  beheld  that  seed  sown,  which,  from 
a  mustard-grain  too  scanty  for  a  bird's  beak,  shall  grow 
up  to  be  a  shelter  and  a  home  for  the  whole  family  of 
man.  I  have  looked  upon  the  thrones  of  kings,  and  lo ! 
the  anointed  ones  were  in  purple  and  festive  pomp ;  and 

VOL.  I.  —  8 


114  THE  DISOWNED. 

I  looked  beneath  tlie  thrones,  and  I  saw  want  and 
hunger  and  despairing  wrath  gnawing  tlie  foundations 
away.  I  have  stood  in  the  streets  of  that  great  city 
where  mirth  seems  to  Iiold  an  eternal  jubilee,  and  be- 
held the  noble  riot  while  the  peasant  starved;  and  the 
priest  build  altars  to  Mammon,  piled  from  the  earnings 
of  groaning  labor,  and  cemented  with  blood  and  tears. 
But  I  looked  farther,  and  saw,  in  the  rear,  chains 
sharpened  into  swords,  misery  ripening  into  justice,  and 
famine  darkening  into  revenge ;  and  I  laughed  as  I  be- 
held, for  I  knew  that  the  day  of  the  oppressed  was  at 
hand." 

Somewhat  awed  by  the  prophetic  tone,  though  re- 
volted by  what  seemed  to  him  the  novelty  and  the 
fierceness,  of  the  sentiments  of  the  republican,  Clarence, 
after  a  brief  pause,  said,  — 

"  And  what  of  our  own  country  ?  " 

Wolfe's  brow  darkened.  "  The  oppression  here, " 
said  he,  "has  not  been  so  weighty,  therefore  the  reac- 
tion will  be  less  strong;  the  parties  are  more  blended, 
therefore  their  separation  Avill  be  more  arduous;  the 
extortion  is  less  strained,  therefore  the  endurance  will  be 
more  meek;  but,  soon  or  late,  the  struggle  must  come: 
bloody  will  it  be,  if  the  strife  be  even ;  gentle  and  lasting, 
if  the  people  predominate." 

"  And  if  the  rulers  be  the  strongest  1  "  said  Clarence. 

"The  struggle  will  be  renewed,"  replied  Wolfe, 
doggedly. 

"  You  still  attend  those  oratorical  meetings,  cousin, 
I  think  ?  "  said  Warner. 

"  I  do, "  said  Wolfe ;  "  and  if  you  are  not  so  utterly 
absorbed  in  your  vain  and  idle  art  as  to  be  indifferent 
to  all  things  nobler,  you  will  learn  yourself  to  take 
interest  in  what  concerns,  —  I  will  not  say  your  country, 


THE   DISOWNED.  115 

but  —  mankind.  Por  yon,  young  man  "  (and  the  repub- 
lican turned  to  Clarence),  "  I  would  fain  hope  that  life 
has  not  already  been  diverted  from  the  greatest  of  human 
objects;  if  so,  come  to-morrow  night  to  our  assembly, 
and  learn  from  worthier  lips  than  mine  the  precepts  and 
the  hopes  for  which  good  men  live  or  die. " 

"  I  will  come  at  all  events  to  listen,  if  not  to  learn, " 
said  Clarence,  eagerly,  for  his  curiosity  was  excited. 
And  the  republican,  having  now  fulfilled  the  end  of  his 
visit,  rose  and  departed. 


116  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

Bound  to  suffer  persecution 
And  martyrdom  with  resolution, 
T'  oppose  himself  aga-iust  the  liute 
And  vengeance  of  the  incensed  state. 

Hudibras. 

BoRjT  of  respectable  though  not  wealtliy  parents,  Jolin 
Wolfe  was  one  of  those  fiery  and  daring  spirits  which, 
previous  to  some  mighty  revolution,  fate  seems  to  scatter 
over  various  parts  of  the  earth,  even  those  removed  from 
the  predestined  explosion :  heralds  of  the  events  in  which 
they  are  fitted,  though  not  fated,  to  be  actors.  The 
period  at  which  he  is  presented  to  the  reader  was  one 
considerably  prior  to  that  French  Revolution  so  much 
debated  and  so  little  understood.  But  some  such  event, 
though  not  foreseen  by  the  common,  had  been  already 
foreboded  by  the  more  enlightened  eye ;  and  Wolfe,  from 
a  protracted  residence  in  France,  among  the  most  discon- 
tented of  its  freer  spirits,  had  brought  hope  to  that 
burning  enthusiasm  which  had  long  made  the  pervading 
passion  of  his  existence. 

Bold  to  ferocity,  generous  in  devotion  to  folly  in 
self-sacrifice,  unflinching  in  his  tenets  to  a  degree  which 
rendered  their  ardor  ineffectual  to  all  times,  because 
utterly  inapplicable  to  the  present,  Wolfe  was  one  of 
those  zealots  whose  very  virtues  have  the  semblance  of 
vice,  and  whose  very  capacities  for  danger  become  harm- 
less from  the  rashness  of  their  excess. 

It  was  not  among  the  philosophers  and  reasoners  of 
France  that  Wolfe  had  drawn  strength  to  his  opinions: 


THE   DISOWNED.  117 

whatever  such  companions  might  have  done  to  his 
tenets,  they  would  at  least  have  moderated  his  actions. 
The  philosopher  may  aid  or  expedite  a  change,  hut 
never  does  the  philosopher  in  any  age  or  of  any  sect  coun- 
tenance a  crime.  But  of  philosophers  Wolfe  knew  little, 
and  prohably  despised  them  for  their  temperance :  it  was 
among  fanatics,  ignorant  hut  imaginative,  that  he  had 
strengthened  the  love  without  comprehending  the  nature 
of  republicanism.  Like  Lucian's  painter,  whose  flattery 
portrayed  the  one-eyed  prince  in  profile,  he  viewed  only 
that  side  of  the  question  in  which  there  was  no  defect, 
and  gave  beauty  to  the  whole  hy  concealing  the  half. 
Thus,  though  on  his  return  to  England  herding  Avith 
the  common  class  of  his  reforming  brethren,  Wolfe  pos- 
sessed many  peculiarities  and  distinctions  of  character 
which,  in  rendering  him  strikingly  adapted  to  the  pur- 
pose of  the  novelist,  must  serve  as  a  caution  to  the 
reader  not  to  judge  of  the  class  by  the  individual. 

With  a  class  of  republicans  in  England  there  was  a 
strong  tendency  to  support  their  cause  by  reasoning. 
With  Wolfe,  whose  mind  was  little  wedded  to  logic, 
all  was  the  olispring  of  turbulent  feelings,  which,  in 
rejecting  argument,  substituted  declamation  for  syllogism. 
This  effected  a  powerful  and  irreconcilable  distinction 
between  Wolfe  and  the  better  part  of  his  comrades;  for 
the  habits  of  cool  reasoning,  whether  true  or  false,  are 
little  likely  to  bias  the  mind  towards  those  crimes  to 
which  Wolfe's  irregulated  emotions  might  possibly 
urge  him,  and  give  to  the  characters  to  which  they  are 
a  sort  of  common  denominator  something  of  method  and 
much  of  similarity.  But  the  feelings  —  those  orators 
which  allow  no  calculation,  and  baffle  the  tameness  of 
comparison  —  rendered  Wolfe  alone,  unique,  eccentric  in 
opinion  or  action,  whether  of  vice  or  virtue. 


118  THE   DISOWNED. 

Private  ties  frequently  moderate  the  ardor  of  our 
public  enthusiasm.  Wolfe  had  none.  His  nearest  re- 
lation was  Warner,  and  it  may  readily  be  supposed  that 
with  the  pensive  and  contemplative  artist  he  had  very 
little  in  common.  He  had  never  married,  nor  had  ever 
seemed  to  wander  from  his  stern  and  sterile  path  in  the 
most  transient  pursuit  of  the  pleasures  of  sense.  Inflex- 
ibly honest,  rigidly  austere, —  in  his  moral  character  his 
bitterest  enemies  could  detect  no  flaw,  —  poor,  even  to 
indigence,  he  had  invariably  refused  all  overtures  of  the 
government;  thrice  imprisoned  and  heavily  fined  for 
his  doctrines,  no  fear  of  a  future,  no  remembrance  of 
the  past  punishment  could  ever  silence  his  bitter  elo- 
quence or  moderate  the  passion  of  his  distempered  zeal ; 
kindly,  though  rude,  his  scanty  means  were  ever  shared 
by  the  less  honest  and  disinterested  followers  of  his 
faith;  and  he  had  been  known  for  days  to  deprive  him- 
self of  food,  and  for  nights  of  shelter,  for  the  purpose  of 
yielding  food  and  shelter  to  another. 

Such  was  the  man  doomed  to  forsake,  through  a' long 
and  wasted  life,  every  substantial  blessing,  in  pursuit  of 
a  shadowy  good;  with  the  warmest  benevolence  in  his 
heart,  to  relinquish  private  afi'ections,  and  to  brood  even 
to  madness  over  public  off'ences,  —  to  sacrifice  everything, 
in  a  generous  though  erring  devotion,  for  that  freedom 
whose  cause,  instead  of  promoting,  he  was  calcidated  to 
retard;  and,  while  he  believed  himself  the  martyr  of  a 
high  and  uncompromising  virtue,  to  close  his  career  with 
the  greatest  of  human  crimes. 


THE   DISOWNED.  119 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Faith,  methinks  his  humor  is  good,  and  his  purse  will  buy  good 
company.  —  The  Parson's  Wedding. 

Whex  Clarence  returned  home,  after  the  conversation 
recorded  in  our  last  chapter,  he  found  a  note  from  Tal- 
bot, inviting  him  to  meet  some  friends  of  the  latter  at 
supper  that  evening.  It  was  the  first  time  Clarence  had 
heen  asked,  and  he  looked  forward  with  some  curiosity 
and  impatience  to  the  hour  appointed  in  the  note. 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  any  idea  of  the  jealous  ran- 
cor felt  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Copperas  on  hearing  of  this 
distinction,  —  a  distinction  which  "  the  perfect  courtier  " 
had  never  once  bestowed  upon  themselves. 

Mrs.  Copperas  tossed  her  head,  too  indignant  for 
words;  and  the  stock-jobber,  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
soul,  affirmed,  with  a  meaning  air,  "  that  he  dared  say, 
after  all,  that  the  old  gentleman  was  not  so  rich  as  he 
gave  out." 

On  entering  Talbot's  drawing-room,  Clarence  found 
about  seven  or  eight  people  assembled:  their  names,  in 
proclaiming  the  nature  of  the  party,  indicated  that  the 
aim  of  the  host  was  to  combine  aristocracy  and  talent. 
The  literary  acqiiirements  and  worldly  tact  of  Talbot, 
joined  to  the  adventitious  circumstances  of  birth  and 
fortune,  enabled  him  to  eff"ect  this  object,  so  desirable  in 
polished  society,  far  better  than  we  generally  find  it 
effected  now.  The  conversation  of  these  guests  was 
light  and  various.  The  last  ban  mot  of  Chesterfield, 
the  last  sarcasm  of  Horace  Walpole,  Goldsmith's  "  Trav- 


120  TIIK   DISOWNED. 

eller, "  Shenstone's  "Pastorals,"  and  tlio  attempt  of  IMrs. 
Montagu  to  bring  Sliakespeare  into  fashion,  —  in  all 
these  subjects  the  graceful  wit  and  exquisite  taste  of 
Taibot  shone  pre-eminent;  and  he  had  almost  succeeded 
in  convincing  a  profound  critic  that  Gray  was  a  poet 
more  likely  to  live  than  Mason,  when  the  servant 
announced  supper. 

That  was  tlie  age  for  suppers!  Happy  age!  Meal  of 
ease  and  mirth;  when  Vv^ine  and  night  lit  the  lamp  of 
wit !  Oh,  what  precious  things  were  said  and  looked  at 
those  banquets  of  the  so;d!  There,  epicurism  was  in 
the  lip  as  well  as  the  palate,  and  one  had  humor  for  a 
Jiors  cVcouvre,  and  repartee  for  an  entremet.  In  dinner 
there  is  something  too  pompous,  too  formal,  for  the 
true  ease  of  table  talk.  One's  intellectual  appetite,  like 
the  physical,  is  coarse  but  dull.  At  dinner  one  is  fit 
only  for  eating;  after  dmner  only  for  politics.  But 
supper  was  a  glorious  relic  of  the  ancients.  The  bustle 
of  the  day  had  thoroughly  wound  up  the  spirit,  and 
every  stroke  upon  the  dial-plate  of  wit  was  true  to  the 
genius  of  the  hour.  The  wallet  of  diurnal  anecdote  was 
full,  and  craved  unloading.  The  great  meal  —  that  vul- 
gar first  love  of  the  appetite  —  was  over,  and  one  now 
only  flattered  it  into  coquetting  with  another.  Tlio 
mind,  disengaged  and  free,  was  no  longer  absorbed  in 
a  cutlet  or  burdened  with  a  joint.  The  gourmand 
carried  the  nicety  of  his  physical  perception  to  his 
moral,  and  applauded  a  hon  mot  instead  of  a  bonne 
bouche. 

Then,  too,  one  had  no  necessity  to  keep  a  reserve  of 
thought  for  the  after  evening;  supper  was  the  final  con- 
summation, the  glorious  funeral  pyre  of  the  day.  One 
could  be  merry  till  bed-time  without  an  interregnum. 
Nay,  if  in  the  ardor  of  convivialism  one  did,  —  I  merely 


THE   DISOWNED.  121 

hint  at  the  possibiKty  of  such  an  event,  — if  one  did 
exceed  the  narrow  limits  of  strict  ebriety,  and  open  the 
heart  with  a  ruby  key,  one  had  nothing  to  dread  from 
the  cold,  or,  what  is  worse,  the  warm  looks  of  ladies  in 
the  drawing-room;  no  fear  that  an  imprudent  word,  in 
the  amatory  fondness  of  the  fermented  blood,  might  ex- 
pose one  to  matrimony  and  settlements.  There  was  no 
tame  trite  medium  of  propriety  and  suppressed  confi- 
dence, no  bridge  from  board  to  bed,  over  which  a  false 
step  (and  your  wine  cup  is  a  marvellous  corrupter  of 
ambulatory  rectitude)  might  precipitate  into  an  irrecov- 
erable abyss  of  perilous  communication  or  unwholesome 
truth.  One's  pillow  became  at  once  the  legitimate  and 
natural  bourn  to  "  the  overheated  brain ; "  and  the 
generous  rashness  of  the  conatorial  reveller  was  not 
damped  by  untimeous  caution  or  ignoble  calculation. 

But  "  we  have  changed  all  that  now :  "  sobriety  has 
become  the  successor  of  suppers;  the  great  ocean  of 
moral  encroachment  has  not  left  us  one  little  island  of 
refuge.  Miserable  supper-lovers  that  we  are,  like  the 
native  Indians  of  America,  a  scattered  and  daily  disap- 
pearing race,  we  wander  among  strange  customs,  and 
behold  the  innovating  and  invading  dinner  spread  gradu- 
ally over  the  very  space  of  time  in  which  the  majesty  of 
supper  once  reigned  undisputed  and  supreme! 

"  0  ye  heavens,  be  kind, 
And  feel,  thou  earth,  for  this  afflicted  race."  ^ 

As  he  was  sitting  down  to  the  table,  Clarence's  notice 
was  arrested  by  a  somewhat  suspicious  and  unpleasing 
occurrence.  The  supper  room  Avas  on  the  ground  floor, 
and,  owing  to  the  heat  of  the  weather,  one  of  the  win- 
dows facing  the  small  garden,  was  left  open.     Through 

^  Wordsworth. 


122  THE   DISOWNED. 

this  window  Clarence  distinctly  saw  tlie  face  of  a  man 
look  into  the  room  for  one  instant,  with  a  prying  and 
curious  gaze,  and  then  as  instantly  disappear.  As  no 
one  else  seemed  to  remark  this  incident,  and  the  general 
attention  was  somewhat  noisily  engrossed  by  the  subject 
of  conversation,  Clarence  thought  it  not  worth  while  to 
mention  a  circumstance  for  which  tlie  impertinence  of 
any  neighboring  servant  or  drunken  passer-by  might 
easily  account.  An  apprehension,  however,  of  a  more 
unpleasant  nature  shot  across  him,  as  his  eye  fell  upon 
the  costly  plate  which  Talbot  rather  ostentatiously  dis- 
played, and  then  glanced  to  the  single  and  aged  servant, 
who  was,  besides  his  master,  the  only  male  inmate  of 
the  house.  ISTor  could  he  help  saying  to  Talbot,  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  that  he  wondered  he  was  not 
afraid  of  hoarding  so  many  articles  of  value  in  a  house  at 
once  lonely  and  ill-guarded. 

"  Ill-guarded !  "  said  Talbot,  rather  affronted,  "  why,  I 
and  my  servant  always  sleep  here !  " 

To  this  Clarence  thought  it  neither  prudent  nor  well- 
bred  to  olier  further  remark. 


THE   DISOWNED.  123 


CHAPTEE    XVII. 

Meetings,  or  public  calls,  he  never  missed, 
To  dictate  often,  always  to  assist. 

To  his  experience  and  his  native  sense, 

He  joined  a  bold,  imperious  eloquence  ; 

The  grave,  stern  look  of  men  informed  and  wise, 

A  full  command  of  feature,  heart,  and  eyes. 

An  awe-compelling  frown,  and  fear-inspiring  size. 

Crabbe. 

The  next  evening  Clarence,  mindful  of  Wolfe's  invita- 
tion, inquired  from  Warner  (who  repaid  the  contempt 
of  the  republican  for  the  painter's  calling  by  a  similar 
feeling  for  the  zealot's)  the  direction  of  the  oratorical 
meeting,  and  repaired  there  alone.  It  was  the  most 
celebrated  club  (of  that  description)  of  the  day,  and  well 
worth  attending,  as  a  gratification  to  the  curiosity,  if  not 
an  improvement  to  the  mind. 

On  entering,  he  found  himself  in  a  long  room,  toler- 
ably well  lighted,  and  still  better  filled.  Tlie  sleepy 
countenances  of  the  audience,  the  whispered  conversa- 
tion carried  on  at  scattered  intervals,  the  listless  atti- 
tudes of  some,  the  frequent  yawns  of  others,  the  eager- 
ness with  which  attention  was  attracted  to  the  opening 
door,  when  it  admitted  some  new  object  of  interest,  the 
desperate  resolution  with  which  some  of  the  more  ener- 
getic turned  themselves  towards  the  orator,  and  then, 
with  a  faint  shake  of  the  head,  turned  themselves  again 
hopelessly  away,  —  were  all  signs  that  denoted  that  no 
very    eloquent    declaimer    was    in     possession    of     the 


124:  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  lionse. "  It  was,  indeed,  a  singularly  dull,  monotonous 
voice  which,  arising  from  the  upper  end  of  the  room, 
dragged  itself  on  towards  the  middle,  and  expired  with 
a  sighing  sound  before  it  reached  the  end.  The  face  of 
the  speaker  suited  his  vocal  powers :  it  was  small,  mean, 
and  of  a  round  stupidity,  withoi;t  anything  even  in  fault 
that  could  possibly  command  attention,  or  even  the  ex- 
citement of  disapprobation ;  the  very  garments  of  the 
orator  seemed  dull  and  heavy,  and,  like  the  Melancholy 
of  Milton,  had  a  "  leaden  look. "  Now  and  then  some 
words  more  emphatic  than  others,  —  stones  breaking,  as  it 
were,  with  a  momentary  splash  the  stagnation  of  the 
heavy  stream, —  produced  from  three  very  quiet,  un- 
happy-looking persons,  seated  next  to  the  speaker,  his 
immediate  friends,  three  single  insolated  "  hears !  " 

The  force  of  friendship  could  no  further  go. 

At  last  the  orator  having  spoken  through,  suddenly 
stopped;  the  whole  meeting  seemed  as  if  a  weight  had 
been  taken  from  it ;  there  was  a  general  buzz  of  awak- 
ened energy,  each  stretched  his  limbs,  and  resettled  him- 
self in  his  place, 

And  turning  to  his  neighbor,  said,  '*  Rejoice  !  ** 

A  pause  ensued;  the  chairman  looked  round,  —  the 
eyes  of  the  meeting  followed  those  of  their  president, 
with  a  universal  and  palpable  impatience,  towards  an 
obscure  corner  of  the  room:  the  pause  deepened  for  one 
moment,  and  then  was  broken ;  a  voice  cried  "  Wolfe !  " 
and  at  that  signal  the  whole  room  shook  with  the  name. 
The  place  which  Clarence  had  taken  did  not  allow  him 
to  see  the  object  of  these  cries  till  he  rose  from  his  situa- 
tion, and,  passing  two  rows  of  benches,  stood  forth  in 


THE   DISOWNED.  125 

the  middle  space  of  the  room;  then,  from  one  to  one, 
went  round  the  general  roar  of  applause;  feet  stamped, 
hands  clapped,  umhrellas  set  their  sharp  points  to  the 
ground,  and  walking-sticks  thumped  themselves  out  of 
shape  in  the  universal  clamor.  Tall,  gaunt,  and  erect, 
the  speaker  possessed,  even  in  the  mere  proportions  of 
his  frame,  that  physical  power  which  never  fails,  in  a 
popular  assembly,  to  gam  attention  to  mediocrity,  and  to 
throw  dignity  over  faults.  He  looked  very  slowly  round 
the  room,  remammg  perfectly  still  and  motionless,  till 
the  clamor  of  applause  had  entirely  subsided,  and  every 
ear,  Clarence's  no  less  eagerly  than  the  rest,  was  strained, 
and  thirsting  to  catch  the  first  syllables  of  his  voice. 

It  Avas  then  with  a  low,  very  deep,  and  somewhat 
hoarse  tone  that  he  began ;  and  it  was  not  till  he  had 
spoken  for  several  minutes  that  the  iron  expression  of  his 
face  altered,  that  the  drooping  hand  was  raised,  and  that 
the  suppressed,  yet  powerful  voice  began  to  expand  and 
vary  in  its  volume.  He  had  then  entered  upon  a  new 
department  of  his  subject.  The  question  was  connected 
with  the  English  constitution,  and  Wolfe  was  now  pre- 
paring to  put  forth,  in  long  and  blackened  array,  the 
alleged  evils  of  an  aristocratical  form  of  government. 
Then  it  was  as  if  the  bile  and  bitterness  of  years  were 
poured  forth  in  a  terrible  and  stormy  wrath,  then  his 
action  became  vehement,  and  his  eye  flashed  forth  unut- 
terable fire ;  his  voice,  solemn,  swelling  and  increasing 
with  each  tone  in  its  height  and  depth,  filled,  as  with 
something  palpable  and  perceptible,  the  shaking  walls. 
The  listeners,  —  a  various  and  unconnected  group,  bound 
by  no  tie  of  faith  or  of  party,  many  attracted  by  curiosity, 
many  by  the  hope  of  ridicule :  some  abhorring  the  tenets 
expressed,  and  nearly  all  disapproving  their  principles 
or  doubting  their  wisdom,  —  the  listeners,  certainly  not 


126  THE   DISOWNED. 

a  group  previously  formed  or  moulded  into  enthusiasm, 
became  rapt  and  earnest,  their  very  breath  forsook 
them. 

Linden  had  never  before  that  night  heard  a  public 
speaker ;  but  he  was  of  a  thoughtful  and  rather  calculat- 
ing mind,  and  his  early  habits  of  decision,  and  the  pre- 
mature cultivation  of  his  intellect,  rendered  him  little 
susceptible,  in  general,  to  the  impressions  of  the  vulgar; 
nevertheless,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  was  hurried  away  by 
the  stream,  and  found  that  the  force  and  rapidity  of  the 
speaker  did  not  allow  him  even  time  for  the  dissent  and 
disapprobation  which  his  republican  maxims  and  fiery 
denunciations  perpetually  excited  in  a  mind  aristocratic 
both  by  creed  and  education.  At  length,  after  a  perora- 
tion of  impetuous  and  magnificent  invective,  the  orator 
ceased. 

In  the  midst  of  the  applause  that  followed,  Clarence 
left  the  assembly ;  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  that 
any  duller  or  more  commonplace  speaker  should  fritter 
away  the  spell  which  yet  bound  and  engrossed  his 
spirit. 


THE   DISOWNED.  127 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  staircase  was  a  small  door,  which  gave  way 
before  Nigel,  as  he  precipitated  himself  upon  the  scene  of  action, 
a  cocked  pistol  in  one  hand,  etc.  —  Fortunes  of  Nigel. 

The  night,  though  not  utterly  dark,  Avas  rendered  capri- 
cious and  dim  by  alternate  wind  and  rain ;  and  Clarence 
was  delayed  in  his  return  homeward  by  seeking  occa- 
sional shelter  from  the  rapid  and  heavy  .showers  which 
hurried  by.  It  was  during  one  of  the  temporary  cessa- 
tions of  the  rain  that  he  reached  Copperas  Bower,  and 
while  he  was  searching  in  his  pockets  for  the  key  which 
was  to  admit  him,  he  observed  two  men  loitering  about 
his  neighbor's  house.  The  light  was  not  sufficient  to 
give  him  more  than  a  scattered  and  imperfect  view  of 
their  motions.  Somewhat  alarmed,  he  stood  for  several 
moments  at  the  door,  watching  them  as  well  as  he  was 
able ;  nor  did  he  enter  the  house  till  the  loiterers  had 
left  their  suspicioiis  position,  and,  Avalking  omvarcis, 
were  hid  entirely  from  him  by  the  distance  and 
darkness. 

"  It  really  is  a  dangerous  thing  for  Talbot,"  thought 
Clarence ,  as  he  ascended  to  his  apartment,  "  to  keep  so 
many  valuables,  and  only  one  servant,  and  that  one  as 
old  as  himself  too.  However,  as  I  am  by  no  means 
sleepy,  and  my  room  is  by  no  means  cool,  I  may  as  well 
open  my  window,  and  see  if  those  idle  fellows  make 
their  reappearance."  Suiting  the  action  to  the  thought 
Clarence  opened  his  little  casement,  and  leaned  wist- 
fully out. 


128  THE    DISOWNED. 

He  had  no  liglit  in  liis  room,  for  none  was  ever  left 
for  him.  Tliis  circumstance,  however,  of  course  enabled 
him  the  better  to  penetrate  the  dimness  and  haze  of  the 
night,  and,  by  the  help  of  the  fluttering  lamps,  he  was 
enabled  to  take  a  general,  though  not  minute  survey 
of  the  scene  below. 

I  think  I  have  before  said  that  there  was  a  garden 
between  Talbot's  house  and  Cop[)eras  Bower;  this  was 
bounded  by  a  wall,  which  confined  Talbot's  peculiar 
territory  of  garden,  and  this  wall,  describing  a  parallelo- 
gram, faced  also  the  road.  It  contained  two  entrances, 
—  one  the  principal  adytus,  in  the  shape  of  a  comely 
iron  gate,  the  other  a  wooden  door,  which,  being  a  pri- 
vate pass,  fronted  the  intermediate  garden  before  men- 
tioned, and  was  exactly  opposite  to  Clarence's  window. 

Linden  had  been  more  than  ten  minutes  at  his  post, 
and  had  just  begun  to  think  his  suspicions  without 
foundation,  and  his  vigil  in  vain,  when  he  observed 
the  same  figures  he  had  seen  before  advance  slowly  from 
the  distance,  and  pause  by  tne  front  gate  of  Talbot's 
mansion. 

Alarmed  and  anxious,  he  redoubled  his  attention;  he 
stretched  himself,  as  far  as  his  safety  would  permit,  out 
of  the  window;  the  lamps,  agitated  by  the  wind,  which 
swept  by  in  occasional  gusts,  refused  to  grant  to  his 
straining  sight  more  than  an  inaccurate  and  unsatisfying 
survey.  Presently  a  blast,  more  violent  than  ordinary, 
suspended  as  it  were  tlie  falling  columns  of  rain,  and 
left  Clarence  in  almost  total  darkness;  it  rolled  away, 
and  the  momentary  calm  which  ensued  enabled  him  to 
see  that  one  of  the  men  was  stooping  by  the  gate,  and 
the  other  standing  apparently  on  the  watch  at  a  little 
distance.  Another  gust  shook  the  lamps,  and  again 
obscured  his  view ;  and  when  it  had  passed  onward  in 


THE   DISOWNED.  129 

its  rapid  course,  the  men  had  left  the  gate,  and  were  in 
the  garden  beneath  his  window.  They  crept  cautiously 
but  swiftly  along  the  opposite  wall,  till  they  came  to 
the  small  door  we  have  before  mentioned;  here  they 
halted,  and  one  of  them  appeared  to  occupy  himself  in 
opening  the  door.  Now  then,  fear  was  changed  into 
certainty,  and  it  seemed  without  doubt  that  the  men, 
having  found  some  difficulty  or  danger  in  forcing  the 
stronger  or  more  public  entrance,  had  changed  their 
quarter  of  attack.  No  more  time  was  to  be  lost ;  Clar- 
ence shouted  aloud,  but  the  high  wind  probably  pre- 
vented the  sound  reaching  the  ears  of  the  burglars,  or  at 
least  rendered  it  dubious  and  confused.  The  next 
moment,  and  before  Clarence  could  repeat  his  alarm, 
they  had  opened  the  door,  and  were  within  the  neighbor- 
ing garden,  beyond  his  view.  Very  young  men,  unless 
their  experience  has  outstripped  their  youth,  seldom 
have  much  presence  of  mind;  that  quality,  which  is  the 
opposite  to  surprise,  comes  to  us  in  those  years  when 
nothing  seems  to  us  strange  or  unexpected.  But  a 
much  older  man  than  Clarence  might  have  well  been  at 
a  loss  to  know  what  conduct  to  adopt  in  the  situation  in 
which  our  hero  was  placed.  The  visits  of  the  watch- 
man to  that  (then)  obscure  and  ill-inhabited  neighbor- 
hood, were  more  regulated  by  his  indolence  than  his 
duty,  and  Clarence  knew  that  it  would  be  in  vain  to 
listen  for  his  cry  or  tarry  for  his  assistance.  He  him- 
self was  utterly  unarmed,  but  the  stock-jobber  had  a  pair 
of  horse-pistols,  and  as  this  recollection  flashed  upon 
him,  the  pause  of  deliberation  ceased. 

With  a  swift  step  he  descended  the  first  flight  of  stairs, 
and  pausing  at  the  chamber  door  of  the  faithful  couple, 
knocked  upon  its  panels  with  a  loud  and  hasty  summons. 
The   second  repetition  of   the  noise  produced  the  sen- 

VOL.  I.  —  9 


130  THE   DISOWNED. 

te nee,  uttered  in  a  very  trembling  voice,  of  "Who's 
there?" 

"It  is  I,  Clarence  Linden,"  replied  our  hero;  "lose 
no  time  in  opening  the  door." 

This  answer  seemed  to  re-assure  the  valorous  stock- 
jobber.    He  slowly  undid  tlie  bolt  and  turned  the  key. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  what  do  you  want,  Mr.  Linden  1  " 
said  he. 

"  Ay,"  cried  a  sharp  voice  from  the  more  internal 
recesses  of  the  chamber,  "  what  do  you  want,  sir,  dis- 
turbing us  in  the  bosom  of  our  family,  and  at  the  dead 
of  night?" 

With  a  rapid  voice,  Clarence  repeated  what  ho  had 
seen,  and  requested  the  looker  to  accompany  him  to 
Talbot's  house,  or  at  least  to  lend  him  his  pistols. 

"He  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  cried  Mrs.  Copperas, 
"  Come  here,  Mr.  C,  and  shut  the  door  directly," 

"Stop,  my  love,"  said  the  stock-jobber,  "stop  a 
moment. " 

"  For  God's  sake,"  cried  Clarence,  "make  no  delay; 
the  poor  old  man  may  be  murdered  by  tliis  time." 

"  It 's  no  business  of  mine,"  said  the  stock-jobber. 
"  If  Adolphus  had  not  broken  the  rattle  I  would  not 
have  minded  the  trouble  of  springing  it;  but  you  are 
very  much  mistaken  if  you  think  I  am  going  to  leave 
my  warm  bed  in  order  to  have  my  throat  cut. " 

"  Then  give  me  your  pistols,"  cried  Clarence;  "  I  will 
go  alone." 

"  I  shall  commit  no  such  folly,"  said  the  stock- 
jobber; "  if  you  are  murdered,  I  may  have  to  answer  it 
to  your  friends,  and  pay  for  your  burial.  Besides,  you 
owe  us  for  your  lodgings,  —  go  to  your  bed,  yovmg  man, 
as  I  shall  to  mine,"  And  so  saying,  Mr.  Copperas 
proceeded  to  close  the  door. 


THE   DISOWNED.  131 

But  enraged  at  the  brutality  of  the  man,  and  excited 
by  the  urgency  of  the  case,  Clarence  did  not  allow  him 
so  peaceable  a  retreat.  With  a  strong  and  fierce  grasp, 
he  seized  the  astonished  Copperas  by  the  throat,  and 
shaking  him  violently,  forced  his  own  entrance  into  the 
sacred  nuptial  chamber. 

"By  Heaven,"  cried  Linden,  in  a  savage  and  stem 
tone,  for  his  blood  was  up,  '  I  will  twist  your  coward's 
throat,  and  save  the  murderer  his  labor,  if  you  do  not 
instantly  give  me  up  your  pistols. " 

The  stock-jobber  was  panic-stricken.  "Take  them," 
he  cried  in  the  extremest  terror;  "there  they  are  on 
the  chimney-piece,  close  by." 

"Are  they  primed  and  loaded?"  said  Linden,  not 
relaxing  his  gripe. 

"  Yes,  yes!  "  said  the  stock-jobber,  "  loose  my  throat, 
or  you  will  choke  me !  "  and,  at  that  instant,  Clarence 
felt  himself  clasped  by  the  invading  hcnds  of  Mrs. 
Copperas. 

"  Call  off  your  wife,"  said  he,  "  or  I  will  choke  you!  " 
and  he  tightened  his  hold,  "  and  tell  her  to  give  me  the 
pistols." 

The  next  moment  Mrs.  Copperas  extended  the  debated 
weapons  towards  Clarence.  He  seized  them,  flung  the 
poor  stock-jobber  against  the  bed-post,  hurried  down- 
stairs, opened  the  back  door,  which  led  into  the  garden, 
flew  across  the  intervening  space,  arrived  at  the  door, 
and  entering  Talbot's  garden,  paused  to  consider  what 
was  the  next  step  to  be  taken. 

A  person  equally  brave  as  Clarence,  but  more  cautious, 
would  not  have  left  the  house  without  alarming  Mr. 
de  Warens,  even  in  spite  of  the  failure  of  his  master; 
but  Linden  only  thought  of  the  pressure  of  time,  and 
the  necessity  of  expedition ,  and  he  would  have  been  a 


132  THE  DISOWNED. 

very  rmworthy  hero  of  romance  liad  he  felt  focir  for  two 
antagonists,  witli  a  brace  of  ])istols  at  his  command,  and 
a  high  and  good  action  in  view. 

After  a  brief  but  decisive  halt,  he  proceeded  rapidly 
round  the  house,  in  order  to  ascertain  at  which  part  the 
ruffians  had  admitted  themselves,  should  they  (as  indeed 
there  was  little  doubt)  have  already  effected  their 
entrance. 

He  found  the  shutters  of  one  of  the  principal  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor  had  been  opened,  and  through  the 
aperture  he  caught  the  glimpse  of  a  moving  light,  which 
was  suddenly  obscured.  As  he  was  about  to  enter,  the 
light  again  flashed  out;  he  drew  back  just  in  time,  care- 
fully screened  himself  behind  the  shutter,  and  through 
one  of  the  chinks  observed  what  passed  within.  Oppo- 
site to  the  window  was  a  door  wliich  conducted  tc  the 
hall  and  principal  staircase;  this  door  was  open,  and  in 
the  hall,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  Clarence  saw  two 
men;  one  carried  a  dark  lantern  from  which  the  light 
proceeded,  and  some  tools,  of  the  nature  of  which  Clar- 
ence was  naturally  ignorant:  this  was  a  middle-sized 
muscular  man,  dressed  in  the  rudest  garb  of  an  ordinary 
laborer;  the  other  was  much  taller  and  younger,  and  his 
dress  was  of  rather  a  less  ignoble  fashion. 

"Hist!  hist!"  said  the  taller  one,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  did  you  not  hear  a  noise,  Ben  1  " 

"  Not  a  pin  fall;  but  stow  your  whids  man!  " 

This  was  all  that  Clarence  heard  in  a  connected  form ; 
but  as  the  wretches  paused  in  evident  doubt  how  to  pro- 
ceed, he  caught  two  or  three  detached  words,  which  his 
ingenuity  readily  formed  into  sentences.  "No,  no! 
sleeps  to  the  left  —  old  man  above  —  plate-chest  —  we 
must  have  the  blunt  too.  Come,  track  up  the  dancers, 
and  dowse  the  glim. "     And  at  the  last  words  the  light 


THE  DISOWNED.  133 

was  extinguished,  and  Clarence's  quick  and  thirsting 
ear  just  caught  their  first  steps  on  the  stairs;  they  died 
away,  and  all  was  liushed. 

It  had  several  times  occiirred  to  Clarence  to  rush 
from  his  hiding-place  and  fire  at  the  ruffians :  and  per- 
haps that  measure  would  have  been  the  wisest  he  could 
have  taken  ;  but  Clarence  had  never  discharged  a  pistol  in 
his  life,  and  he  felt,  therefore,  that  his  aim  must  be  un- 
certain enough  to  render  a  favorable  position  and  a  short 
distance  essential  requisites.  Both  these  were  at  pre- 
sent denied  to  him;  and  although  he  saw  no  weapons 
about  the  persons  of  the  villains,  yet  he  imagined  they 
would  not  have  ventured  on  so  dangerous  an  expedition 
without  fiLre-arms;  and  if  he  failed,  as  would  have  been 
most  probable  in  his  two  shots,  he  concluded  that  though 
the  alarm  would  be  given,  his  own  fate  would  be 
inevitable. 

If  this  was  reasoning  upon  false  premises,  —  for  house- 
breakers seldom  or  never  carry  loaded  fire-arms,  and 
never  stay  for  revenge  when  their  safety  demands  escape, 
—  Clarence  may  be  forgiven  for  not  knowing  the  customs 
of  house-breakers,  and  for  not  making  the  very  best  of 
an  extremely  novel  and  dangerous  situation. 

jSiO  sooner  did  he  find  himself  in  total  darkness,  than 
he  bitterly  reproached  himself  for  his  late  backwardness ; 
and  inwardly  resolving  not  again  to  miss  any  oppor- 
tunity which  presented  itself,  he  entered  the  window, 
groped  along  the  room  int^  the  hall,  and  found  his  way 
very  slowly,  and  after  much  circumlocution,  to  the 
staircase. 

He  had  just  gained  the  summit  when  a  loud  cry  broke 
upon  the  stillness:  it  came  from  a  distance,  and  was 
instantly  hushed;  but  he  caught  at  brief  intervals  the 
sound  of  angry  and  threatening  voices.     Clarence  bent 


134  THE    DISOWNED. 

down  anxiously,  in  the  hope  that  some  solitary  ray 
would  escape  through  the  crevice  of  the  door  within 
which  the  robhers  were  engaged.  But  though  tlie 
sounds  came  from  the  same  floor  as  that  on  which  he 
now  trod,  ihey  seemed  far  and  remote,  and  not  a  gleam 
of  light  broke  the  darkness. 

He  conti)iucd,  however,  to  feel  his  way  in  the  direc- 
tion from  which  the  sounds  proceeded,  and  soon  found 
himself  in  a  narrow  gallery;  the  voices  seemed  more 
loud  and  near  as  he  advanced ;  at  last  he  distinctly  heard 
the  words,  — 

"  Will  you  not  confess  where  it  is  placed  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  indeed,"  replied  an  eager  and  earnest  voice, 
which  Clarence  recognized  as  Talbot's,  "  this  is  all  the 
money  I  have  in  the  house ;  the  plate  is  above :  my  ser- 
vant has  the  key,  take  it  —  take  all — but  save  his  life 
and  mine." 

"  None  of  your  gammon, "  said  another  and  rougher 
voice  than  that  of  the  first  speaker:  "  we  know  you  have 
more  bhuit  than  this,  —  a  paltry  sum  of  fifty  pounds, 
indeed!" 

"  Hold!  "  cried  the  other  ruffian,  "  here  is  a  picture  set 
with  diamonds,  that  will  do,  Ben.  Let  go  the  old 
man. " 

Clarence  was  now  just  at  hand,  and,  probably  from  a 
sudden  change  in  the  position  of  the  dark  lantern  within, 
a  light  abruptly  broke  from  beneath  the  door,  and 
streamed  along  the  passage.  "No,  no,  no!"  cried  the 
old  man,  in  a  loud  yet  tremulous  voice,  —  "  no,  not  that, 
anything  else,  but  I  will  defend  that  with  my  life." 

"  Ben,  my  lad,"  said  the  ruffian,  "  twist  the  old  fool's 
neck:  we  have  no  more  time  to  lose." 

At  that  very  moment  the  door  was  flung  violently 
open,  and  Clarence  Linden  stood  within  three  paces  of 


THE   DISOWNED.  135 

the  reprobates  and  tlieir  prey.  The  taUer  villain  had 
a  miniature  in  his  hand,  and  the  old  man  clung  to  his 
legs  with  a  convulsive  but  impotent  clasp;  the  other 
fellow  had  already  his  grioe  upon  Talbot's  neck,  and  his 
right  hand  grasped  a  long  case-knife. 

With  a  fierce  and  flashing  eye,  and  a  cheek  deadly 
pale  with  internal  and  resolute  excitement,  Clarence 
confronted  the  robbers. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  cried  he,  "  I  am  not  too  late!" 
And,  advancing  yet  another  step  towards  the  shorter 
ruffian,  who,  struck  mute  with  the  suddenness  of  the 
apparition,  still  retained  his  grasp  of  the  old  man,  he 
fired  his  pistol  with  a  steady  and  close  aim ;  the  ball 
penetrated  the  wretch's  brain,  and,  without  sound  or 
sigh,  he  fell  down  dead  at  the  very  feet  of  his  just  de- 
stroyer. The  remaining  robber  had  already  meditated, 
and  a  second  more  sufficed  to  accomplish,  his  escape. 
He  sprang  towards  the  door;  the  ball  whizzed  beside 
him,  but  touched  him  not.  With  a  safe  and  swift  step, 
long  inured  to  darkness,  he  fled  along  the  passage ;  and 
Linden,  satisfied  with  the  vengeance  he  had  taken 
upon  his  comrade,  did  not  harass  him  with  an  unavail- 
ing pursuit. 

Clarence  turned  to  assist  Talbot.  The  old  man  was 
stretched  upon  the  floor  insensible,  but  his  hand  grasped 
the  miniature  which  the  plunderer  had  dropped  in  his 
flight  and  terror,  and  his  white  and  ashen  lip  was 
pressed  convulsively  upon  the  recovered  treasure. 

Linden  raised  and  placed  him  on  his  bed,  and  while 
employed  in  attempting  to  revive  him,  the  ancient  do- 
mestic, alarmed  by  the  report  of  the  pistol,  came,  poker 
in  hand,  to  his  assistance. 

By  little  and  little  they  recovered  the  object  of  their 
attention. 


136  THE   DISOWNED. 

His  eyes  rolled  wildly  round  the  room,  and  lie 
muttered ,  — 

"  Off,  oti'!  ye  shall  not  rob  me  of  my  only  relic  of 
her,  —  where  is  it?  —  have  you  got  it'<  —  the  picture, 
the  picture !  " 

"  It  is  here,  sir,  it  is  here,"  said  the  old  servant;  "  it 
is  in  your  own  hand." 

Talbot's  eye  fell  upon  it;  he  gazed  at  it  for  some 
moments,  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and  then,  sitting  erect, 
and  looking  wildly  round,  he  seemed  to  awaken  to  the 
sense  of  his  late  danger  and  his  present  deliverance. 


THE  DISOWNED.  137 


CHAPTEE  XIX. 

Ah,  fleeter  far  thau  fleetest  storm  or  steed, 

Or  the  death  they  bear, 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes  like  a  dove. 

With  the  wings  of  eare  ! 
In  the  battle,  iu  the  darkness,  in  the  need, 

Shall  uiiue  cling  to  thee  ! 
Nor  claim  one  smile  for  aU  the  comfort,  love. 

It  may  bring  to  tliee  ! 

Shelley. 

LETTER    FROM     ALGERNOX     MOEDAUXT    TO    ISABEL    ST. 
LEGER. 

You  told  me  not  to  write  to  you.  You  know  how  long, 
but  not  how  uselessly  I  have  obeyed  you.  Did  you  think, 
Isabel,  that  my  love  was  of  that  worldly  and  common  order 
which  requires  a  perpetual  alinient  to  support  it  ?  Did  you 
think  that  if  you  forbade  the  stream  to  flow  visibly  its  sources 
would  be  exhausted  and  its  channel  dried  up  1  This  may  be 
the  passion  of  others  ;  it  is  not  mine.  Months  have  passed 
since  we  parted,  and  since  then  you  have  not  seen  me  :  this 
letter  is  the  first  token  you  have  received  from  a  remembrance 
which  cannot  die.  But  do  you  think  that  I  have  not  watched 
and  tended  upon  you,  and  gladdened  my  eyes  with  gazing  on 
your  beauty  when  you  have  not  dreamed  that  I  was  by  ?  Ah, 
Isabel,  your  heart  should  have  told  you  of  it,  —  mine  would 
had  you  been  so  near  me ! 

You  receive  no  letters  from  me,  it  is  true,  — think  you  that 
my  hand  and  heart  are  therefore  idle  1  No.  I  write  to  you 
a  thousand  burning  lines;  I  pour  out  my  soul  to  you;  I  tell 
you  of  all  I  suffer;  my  thoughts,  my  actions,  my  very  dreams, 
are  all  traced  upon  the  paper.  I  send  them  not  to  you,  but  I 
read  them  over  and  over,  aud  when  I  come  to  your  name  1 


138  THE   DISOWNED. 

pause,  and  -sliut  my  eves,  and  then  "Fancy  has  her  power," 
and,  lo  !  "  you  are  by  my  side  I  " 

Isabel,  our  love  has  not  been  a  Imliday  and  joyous  senti- 
ment ;  but  I  feel  a  solemn  and  unalterable  conviction  that  our 
union  is  ordained. 

Others  have  many  objects  to  distract  and  occupy  the  thoughts 
which  are  once  forbidden  a  single  direction,  but  we  have  none. 
At  least,  to  me  you  are  everything.  Pleasure,  splendor,  am- 
bition, —  all  are  merged  into  one  great  and  eternal  thought, 
and  that  is  you  ! 

Others  have  told  me,  and  I  believed  them,  that  I  was  hard, 
and  cold,  and  stern,  —  so,  perhaps,  I  was  before  I  knew  you, 
but  now  I  am  weaker  and  softer  than  a  child.  There  is  a 
stone  which  is  of  all  the  haidest  and  the  chillest,  but  when 
once  set  on  fire  it  is  unquenchable.  You  smile  at  my  image 
perhaps,  and  I  should  smile  if  I  saw  it  in  the  writiug  of  an- 
other ;  for  all  that  I  have  ridiculed  in  romance  as  exaggerated, 
seems  now  to  me  too  cool  and  too  commonplace  for  reality. 

But  this  is  not  what  I  meant  to  write  to  you  ;  you  are  ill, 
dearest  and  noblest  Isabel,  you  are  ill!  I  am  the  cause,  and 
you  conceal  it  from  me  ;  and  you  would  rather  pine  away  and 
die  than  suffer  me  to  lose  one  of  those  worldly  advantages 
which  are  in  my  eyes  but  as  dust  in  the  balance,  —  it  is  in 
vain  to  deny  it.  I  heard  from  others  of  your  impaired  health  ; 
I  have  witnessed  it  myself.  Do  you  remember,  last  night, 
•when  you  were  in  the  room  witli  your  relations,  and  they  made 
you  sing,  —  a  song,  too,  wiiich  you  used  to  sing  to  me,  —  and 
when  you  came  to  the  second  stanza  your  voice  failed  you, 
and  you  burst  into  tears,  and  they,  instead  of  soothing,  re- 
proached and  chid  you,  and  you  answered  not,  but  wept  on  ? 
Isabel,  do  you  remember  that  a  sound  was  heard  at  the  win- 
dow, and  a  groan!  Even  tliey  were  startled,  but  they  thought 
it  was  the  wind  ;  for  the  night  was  dark  and  stormy,  and  they 
saw  not  that  it  was  /,  —  yes,  my  devoted,  my  generous  love, 
it  waa  I  who  gazed  upon  you,  and  from  whose  heart  that  voice 
of  anguish  was  wrung ;  and  I  saw  your  cheek  was  pale  and 
thin,  and  that  the  canker  at  the  core  had  preyed  ui)on  the 
blossom. 


THE   DISOWNED.  139 

Think  yon,  after  this,  that  I  could  keep  silence  or  obey  your 
request  ?  No,  dearest,  no  !  Is  not  ray  happiness  your  object? 
I  have  the  vanity  to  believe  so  ;  and  am  /  not  the  best  judge 
how  that  happiness  is  to  be  secured !  I  tell  you,  I  say  it 
calmly,  coldly,  dispassionately,  —  not  from  the  imagination, 
not  even  from  the  heart,  but  solely  from  the  reason,  —  that  I 
can  bear  everything  rather  than  the  loss  of  you ;  and  that  if 
the  evil  of  my  love  scathe  and  destroy  jon,  I  shall  consider 
and  curse  myself  as  your  murderer  !  Save  me  from  this  ex- 
treme of  misery,  my  —  yes,  my  Isabel!  I  shall  be  at  the 
copse,  where  we  have  so  often  met  before,  to-morrow,  at  noon. 
You  will  meet  me  ;  and  if  I  cannot  convince  j"ou,  I  will  not 
ask  you  to  be  'persuaded. 

A.  M. 

And  Isabel  read  this  ^letter,  and  placed  it  at  her  heart, 
and  felt  less  miserable  than  she  had  done  for  months; 
for,  though  she  wept,  there  was  sweetness  in  the  tears 
which  the  assurance  of  his  love,  and  the  tenderness  of 
his  remonstrance,  had  called  forth.  She  met  him, — 
how  could  she  refuse  1  —  and  the  struggle  w'as  past. 
Though  not  "convinced,"  she  was  "persuaded;"  for 
her  heart,  which  refused  his  reasonings,  melted  at  his 
reproaches  and  his  grief.  But  she  would  not  consent  to 
unite  her  fate  with  him  at  once,  for  the  evils  of  that  step 
to  his  interests  were  immediate  and  near;  she  was  only 
persuaded  to  permit  their  correspondence  and  occasional 
meetings,  in  which,  however  imprudent  they  might  be 
for  herself,  the  disadvantages  to  her  lover  were  distant 
and  remote.  It  was  of  him  only  that  she  thought,  for 
him  she  trembled ;  for  him  she  was  the  coward  and  the 
woman :  for  herself  she  had  no  fears,  and  no  forethought. 

And  Algernon  was  -worthy  of  this  devoted  love,  and 
returned  it  as  it  was  given.  Man's  love,  in  general, 
is  a  selfish  and  exacting  sentiment:    it  demands  every 


140  THE    DISOWNED. 

sacrifice,  and  refuses  all.  But  the  nature  of  Mordaunt 
was  essentially  high  and  disinterested,  and  his  honor, 
like  his  love,  was  not  that  of  the  world:  it  was  the 
ethereal  and  spotless  honor  of  a  lofty  and  generous  mind, 
the  honor  which  custom  can  neither  give  nor  take  away ; 
and,  however  impatiently  he  bore  the  deferring  of  a 
union  in  which  he  deemed  that  he  was  the  only  sufferer, 
he  would  not  have  littered  a  sigh  or  urged  a  prayer  for 
that  vmion,  could  it,  in  the  minutest  or  remotest  degree, 
have  injured  or  degraded  her. 

These  are  the  hearts  and  natures  which  make  life 
beautiful;  these  are  the  shrines  which  sanctify  love; 
these  are  the  diviner  spirits  for  whom  there  is  kin- 
dred and  conmiune  with  everything  exalted  and  holy 
in  heaven  and  earth.  For  th3m  nature  unfolds  her 
hoarded  poetry,  and  her  hidden  spells;  for  their  steps 
are  the  lonely  mountains,  and  the  still  woods  have  a 
murmur  for  their  ears ;  for  them  there  is  strange  music 
in  the  wave,  and  in  tlie  whispers  of  the  liglit  leaves,  and 
rapture  in  the  voices  of  the  birds;  their  souls  drink,  and 
are  saturated  witli  the  mysteries  of  the  Universal  Spirit, 
which  the  philosophy  of  old  times  believed  to  be  God 
himself.  They  look  upon  the  sky  with  a  gifted  vision, 
and  its  dove-like  quiet  descends  and  overshadows  their 
hearts :  the  moon  and  the  night  are  to  them  wells  of 
Castalian  inspiration  and  golden  dreams;  and  it  was  one 
of  them,  who,  gazing  upon  the  evening  star,  felt  in  the 
inmost  sanctuary  of  his  soul  its  mysterious  harmonics 
with  his  most  worshipped  hope,  his  most  passionate 
desire,  and  dedicated  it  to  —  love. 


THE  DISOWNED.  141 


CHAJPTER  XX. 

Maria.     Here  's  the  brave  old  man's  love, 
Bianco.     That  loves  the  young  man. 

The   Woman's  Prize;  or,  the  Tamer  Tamed. 

"  No,  my  dear  Clarence,  you  have  placed  confidence  in 
me,  and  it  is  now  my  duty  to  return  it;  you  have  told 
me  your  history  and  origin,  and  I  will  inform  you  of 
mine,  but  not  yet.  At  present  we  will  talk  of  you. 
You  have  conferred  upon  me  what  our  universal  love  of 
life  makes  us  regard  as  the  greatest  of  human  obliga- 
tions; and  though  I  can  bear  a  large  burden  of  gratitude, 
yet  I  must  throw  off  an  atom  or  two,  in  using  my  little 
power  in  your  behalf.  Nor  is  this  all :  your  history  has 
also  given  you  another  tie  upon  my  heart,  and  in  grant- 
ing you  a  legitimate  title  to  my  good  offices,  removes 
any  scruple  you  might  otherwise  have  had  in  accepting 
them. 

"  I  have  just  received  this  letter  from  Lord ,  the 

minister  for  foreign  affairs:  you  will   see  that  he  has 

appointed   you  to   the   office  of  attache,  at .      You 

will  also  oblige  me  by  looking  over  this  other  letter  at 
your  earliest  convenience;  the  trifling  sum  which  it 
contains  will  be  repeated  every  quarter:  it  will  do  very 
well  for  an  attache,  —  when  you  are  an  ambassador, 
why,  we  must  equip  you  by  a  mortgage  on  Scarsdale; 
and  now,  my  dear  Clarence,  tell  me  all  about  the 
Copperases. " 

I  need  not  say  who  was  the  speaker  of  the  above  sen- 
tences,—  sentences,    apparently    of    a    very  agreeable 


142  THE   DISOWNED. 

nature ;  nevertlieless,  Clarence  seemed  to  think  otherwise, 
for  the  tears  gushed  into  his  eyes,  and  he  was  unable 
for  several  moments  to  reply. 

"Come,  my  young  friend,"  said  Talbot,  kindly;  "I 
have  no  near  relations  among  whom  I  can  choose  a  son 
I  like  better  than  you,  nor  you  any  at  present  from 
whom  j''ou  might  select  a  more  desirable  father;  con- 
sequently, you  must  let  me  look  upon  you  as  my  own 
flesh  and  blood ;  and  as  I  intend  to  be  a  very  strict  and 
peremptory  father,  I  expect  the  most  silent  and  scrupu- 
lous obedience  to  my  commands.  My  first  parental 
order  to  you  is  to  put  up  those  papers,  and  to  say  noth- 
ing more  about  them ;  for  I  have  a  great  deal  to  talk  to 
you  about  upon  other  subjects," 

And  by  these  and  similar  kind-liearted  and  delicate 
remonstrances,  the  old  man  gained  his  point.  From 
that  moment  Clarence  looked  upon  him  with  the  grateful 
and  venerating  love  of  a  son ;  and  I  question  very  much 
if  Talbot  had  really  been  the  father  of  our  hero,  whether 
he  would  have  liked  so  handsome  a  successor  half  so 
well. 

The  day  after  this  arrangement,  Clarence  paid  his 
debt  to  the  Copperases,  and  removed  to  Talbot's  house. 
With  this  event  commenced  a  new  era  in  his  existence: 
he  was  no  longer  an  outcast  and  a  wanderer;  out  of  alien 
ties  he  had  wrought  the  link  of  a  close  and  even  paternal 
friendship;  life,  brilliant  in  its  prospects,  and  elevated 
in  its  ascent,  opened  flatteringly  before  him;  and  the 
fortune  and  courage  whicli  had  so  well  provided  for  the 
present  were  the  best  omens  and  auguries  for  the  future. 

One  evening,  when  the  opening  autumn  had  made  its 
approaches  felt,  and  Linden  and  his  new  parent  were 
seated  alone  by  a  blazing  fire,  and  had  come  to  a  full 
pause  in  their  conversation,  Talbot,   shading  his  face 


THE    DISOWNED.  143 

with  the  friendly  pages  of  the  "  Whitehall  Evening 
Paper/'  as  if  to  protect  it  from  the  heat,  said,  — 

"  I  rold  you,  the  other  day,  that  I  would  give  you,  at 
some  early  opportunity,  a  brief  sketch  of  my  life.  This 
confidence  is  due  to  you  in  return  for  yours ;  and  since 
you  will  soon  leave  me,  and  I  am  an  old  man  whose  life 
no  prudent  calculation  can  fix,  I  may  a.s  well  choose  the 
present  time  to  favor  you  with  my  confessions." 

Clarence  expressed  and  looked  his  interest,  and  the 
old  man  thus  commenced:  — 

THE    HISTORY    OF    A    VAIN    MAN. 

"  I  was  the  favorite  of  my  parents,  for  T  was  quick  at 
my  lessons,  and  my  father  said  I  inherited  my  genius 
from  him;  and  comely  in  my  person,  and  my  mother 
said  that  my  good  looks  came  from  her.  So  the  honest 
pair  saw  in  their  eldest  son  the  union  of  their  own  at- 
tractions, and  thought  they  were  making  much  of  them- 
selves when  they  lavished  their  caresses  upon  me.  They 
had  another  son :  poor  Arthur,  —  I  think  I  see  him  now ! 
He  was  a  shy,  quiet,  subdued  boy,  of  a  very  plain  per- 
sonal appearance.  My  father  and  mother  were  vain, 
showy,  ambitious  people  of  the  world,  and  they  were 
as  ashamed  of  my  brother  as  they  were  proud  of  myself. 
However,  he  afterwards  entered  the  army  and  distin- 
guished himself  highly.  He  died  in  battle,  leaving  an 
only  daughter,  who  married,  ns  you  knoiv,  a  nobleman 
of  high  rank.  Her  subsequent  fate  it  is  now  needless 
to  relate. 

"  Petted  and  pampered  from  my  childhood,  I  grew  up 
with  a  profound  belief  in  my  own  excellences,  and  a 
feverish  and  irritating  desire  to  impress  every  one  who 
came  in  my  way  with  the  same  idea.     There  is  a  sen- 


144  THE   DISOWNED. 

tence  in  Sir  William  Temple  whicli  I  have  often  thought 
of  with  a  painful  conviction  of  its  truth:  '  A  restlessness 
in  men's  minds  to  be  something  they  are  not,  and  to  have 
something  they  have  not,  is  the  root  of  all  immorality.'  ^ 
At  school,  I  was  confessedly  the  cleverest  boy  in  my 
remove;  and,  what  I  valued  equally  as  much,  I  was  the 
best  cricketer  of  the  best  eleven.  Here,  then,  you  will 
say  my  vanity  was  satisfied,  —  no  such  thing!  There 
was  a  boy  who  shared  my  room,  and  was  next  me  in  the 
school;  we  were  therefore  always  thrown  together.  He 
was  a  great,  stupid,  lubberly  cub,  equally  ridiculed  by 
the  masters,  and  disliked  by  the  boys;  will  you  believe 
that  this  individual  was  the  express  and  almost  sole 
object  of  my  envy?  He  was  more  than  my  rival, — he 
was  my  superior;  and  I  hated  him  with  all  the  unleav- 
ened bitterness  of  my  soul. 

"  I  have  said  he  was  my  superior,  —  it  was  in  one 
thing.  He  could  balance  a  stick,  nay,  a  cricket-bat,  a 
poker,  upon  his  chin,  and  I  could  not.  You  laugli,  and 
so  can  I  now;  but  it  was  no  subject  of  laughter  to  me 
then.  This  circumstance,  trilling  as  it  may  appear  to 
you,  poisoned  my  enjoyment.  The  boy  saw  my  envy, 
for  I  could  not  conceal  it;  and  as  all  fools  are  mali- 
cious, and  most  fools  ostentatious,  he  took  a  particular 
pride  and  pleasure  in  displaying  his  dexterity,  and 
'  showing  off  my  discontent.  You  can  form  no  idea  of 
the  extent  to  which  this  petty  insolence  vexed  and  dis- 
quieted me.  Even  iu  my  sleep,  the  clumsy  and  grin- 
ning features  of  this  tormenting  imp  haunted  me  like  a 
spectre;  my  visions  were  nothing  but  chins  and  cricket- 
bats,  —  walking-sticks  sustaining  themselves  upon  hu- 
man excrescences,  and  pokers  dancing  a  hornpipe  upon 
the  tip  of  a  nose.  I  assure  you  that  I  have  spent  hours 
1  Aud  of  all  good.  —  Author. 


THE   DISOWNED.  145 

in  secret  seclusion,  practising  to  rival  my  hated  com- 
rade, and  my  face  —  see  liow  one  vanity  quarrels  with 
another  —  was  little  better  than  a  map  of  bruises  and 
discolorations. 

"  I  actually  became  so  uncomfortable  as  to  write  home, 
and  request  to  leave  the  school.  I  was  then  about  six- 
teen, and  my  indulgent  father,  in  granting  my  desire, 
told  me  that  I  was  too  old  and  too  advanced  in  my 
learning  to  go  to  any  other  academic  establishment  than 
the  university.  The  day  before  I  left  the  school,  I  gave, 
as  was  usually  the  custom,  a  breakfast  to  all  my  friends; 
the  circumstance  of  my  tormentor's  sharing  my  room 
obliged  me  to  invite  him  among  the  rest.  However,  I 
was  in  high  spirits,  and,  being  a  universal  favorite  with 
my  schoolfellows,  I  succeeded  in  what  was  always  to  me 
an  object  of  social  ambition,  and  set  the  table  in  a  roar; 
yet,  when  our  festival  was  nearly  expired,  and  I  began 
to  allude  more  particularly  to  my  approaching  departure, 
my  vanity  was  far  more  gratified,  for  my  feelings  Avere 
far  more  touched,  by  observing  the  regret,  and  receiving 
the  good  wishes,  of  all  my  companions.  I  still  recall 
that  hour  as  one  of  the  proudest  and  happiest  of  my  life ; 
but  it  had  its  immediate  reverse.  My  evil  demon  pub 
it  into  my  tormentor's  head  to  give  me  one  last  parting 
pang  of  jealousy.  A  large  umbrella  liappened  acciden- 
tally to  be  in  my  room :  Crompton  —  such  was  my  school- 
fellow's name  —  saw  and  seized  it:  '  Look,  Talbot,'  said 
he,  with  his  taunting  and  hideous  sneer,  '  you  can't  do 
this ; '  and  placing  tlie  point  of  the  umbrella  upon  his 
forehead,  just  above  the  eyebrow,  he  performed  various 
antics  round  the  room. 

"  At  that  moment  I  was  standing  by  the  fireplace,  and 
conversing  with  two  boys  upon  whom,  above  all  others, 
X  wished  to  leave  a  favorable  impression.     My  foolish 

VOL.  I.  —  10 


146  THE   DISOWNED. 

soreness  on  this  one  subject  hail  heen  often  remarked, 
and  as  I  turned,  in  abrupt  and  awkward  discomposure, 
from  the  exhibition,  I  observed  my  two  schoolfellows 
smile  and  exchange  looks.  I  am  not  naturally  pas- 
sionate, and  even  at  that  age  I  had,  in  ordinary  cases, 
great  self-command;  but  this  observation,  and  the  cause 
which  led  to  it,  threw  me  off  my  guard.  Whenever  we 
are  utterly  under  the  command  of  one  feeling,  we  cannot 
be  said  to  have  our  reason:  at  that  instant  I  literally 
believe  I  was  beside  myself.  What!  in  the  very  flush 
of  the  last  triumph  that  that  scene  would  ever  afford  me ; 
amidst  the  last  regrets  of  my  early  friends,  to  whom  I 
fondly  hoped  to  bequeath  a  Ljng  and  brilliant  remem- 
brance, to  be  thus  bearded  by  a  contemptible  rival,  and 
triumphed  over  by  a  pitiful,  yet  insulting,  superiority; 
to  close  my  condolences  with  laughter ;  to  have  the  final 
solemnity  of  my  career  thus  terminating  in  mockery, 
and  ridicule  substituted  as  an  ultimate  reminiscence  in 
the  place  of  an  admiring  regret, — all  this,  too,  to  be 
effected  by  one  so  long  hated  one  Avhom  I  was  the  only 
being  forbidden  the  comparative  happiness  of  despising, 
—  I  could  not  brook  it;  the  insult,  — the  insulter  were 
too  revolting.  As  the  unliappy  buffoon  approached  me, 
thrusting  his  distorted  face  towards  mine,  I  seized  and 
pushed  him  aside,  with  a  brief  curse  and  a  violent  hand. 
The  sharp  point  of  the  umbrella  slipped ;  my  action  gave 
it  impetus  and  weight;  it  penetrated  his  eye,  and — 
spare  me,  spare  me  the  rest.  "^ 

The  old  man  bent  down,  and  paused  for  a  few  mo- 
ments before  he  resumed. 

"  Crompton  lost  his  eye,  but  my  punisliment  was  as 
severe   as  his.     People  who  are  very  vain  are  usually 

1  This  instance  of  vanity,  and  indeed  the  whole  of  Talbot's  his- 
tory, is  literally  from  facts. 


THE   DISOAVXED.  147 

equally  susceptible,  and  they  who  feel  one  thing  acutely 
will  so  feel  another.  For  years,  ay,  for  many  years 
afterwards,  the  recollection  of  my  folly  goaded  me  with 
the  bitterest  and  most  unceasing  remorse.  Had  I  com- 
mitted murder,  my  conscience  could  scarce  have  afflicted 
me  more  severely.  I  did  not  regain  my  self-esteem  till 
I  had  somewhat  repaired  the  injury  I  had  done.  Long 
after  that  time,  Crompton  was  in  prison,  in  great  and 
overwhelming  distress.  I  impoverished  myself  to  re- 
lease him;  I  sustained  him  and  his  family  till  fortune 
rendered  my  assistance  no  longer  necessary;  and  no  tri- 
umphs were  ever  more  sweet  to  me  than  the  sacrifices  I 
was  forced  to  submit  to,  in  order  to  restore  him  to 
prosperit)'. 

"  It  is  natural  to  hope  that  this  accident  had  at  least 
the  effect  of  curing  me  of  my  fault ;  but  it  requires  phi- 
losophy in  yourself,  or  your  advisers,  to  render  remorse 
of  future  avail.  How  could  I  amend  my  fault,  when  I 
was  not  even  aware  of  it  ?  Smarting  under  the  effects, 
1  investigated  not  the  cause,  and  I  attributed  to  irasci- 
bility and  vindictiveness  wliat  had  a  deeper  and  more 
dangerous  origin. 

"  At  college,  in  spite  of  all  my  advantages  of  birth, 
fortune,  health,  and  intellectual  acquirements,  I  had 
many  things  besides  the  one  enemy  of  remorse  to  corrode 
my  tranquillity  of  mind.  I  was  sure  to  find  some  one 
to  excel  me  in  something,  and  this  was  enough  to  em- 
bitter my  peace.  Our  living  Goldsmith  is  my  favorite 
poet,  and  I  perhaps  insensibly  venerate  the  genius  the 
more  because  I  find  something  congenial  in  the  infirmi- 
ties of  the  man.  /  can  fully  credit  the  anecdotes  re- 
corded of  him.  I  too  could  once  have  been  jealous  of  a 
pappet  handling  a  spontoon ;  /  too  could  once  have  bepn 
miserable  if   two  ladies  at  the  theatre  were   more   the 


148  THE   DISOWNED. 

objects  of  attention  than  myself!  You,  Clarence,  will 
not  despise  me  for  this  confession;  those  who  knew 
me  less  would.  Fools !  there  is  no  man  so  great  as  not 
to  have  some  littleness  more  predominant  than  all  his 
greatness.  Our  virtues  are  the  dupes,  and  often  only 
tlie  playthings,  of  our  follies! 

"  I  entered  the  world, —  with  what  advantages  and 
what  avidity!  I  smile,  but  it  is  mournfully,  in  looking 
back  to  that  day.  Though  rich,  high-born,  and  good- 
looking,  I  possessed  not  one  of  these  three  qualities  in 
that  eminence  which  could  alone  satisfy  my  love  of  supe- 
riority, and  desire  of  effect.  I  knew  this  somewhat 
humiliating  truth;  for,  though  vain,  I  was  not  con- 
ceited. Vanity,  indeed,  is  the  very  antidote  to  conceit; 
for  while  the  former  makes  us  all  nerve  to  the  opinion 
of  others,  the  latter  is  perfectly  satisfied  with  its  opin- 
ion of  itself. 

"I  knew  this  truth,  and  as  Pope,  if  he  could  not  be 
the  greatest  of  poets,  resolved  to  be  the  most  correct,  so 
I  strove,  since  I  could  not  be  the  handsomest,  the 
wealthiest,  and  the  noblest  of  my  contemporaries,  to 
excel  them,  at  least,  in  the  grace  and  consummateness  of 
manner;  and  in  this,  after  incredible  pains,  after  dili- 
gent apprenticeship  in  the  world,  and  intense  study  in 
the  closet,  I  at  last  flattered  myself  that  I  had  succeeded. 
Of  all  success,  while  we  are  yet  in  the  flush  of  youth, 
and  its  capacities  of  enjoyment,  I  can  imagine  none  more 
intoxicating  or  gratifying  than  the  success  of  society,  and 
I  had  certainly  some  years  of  its  triumph  and  eclat.  I 
was  courted,  followed,  flattered,  and  sought  by  the  most 
envied  and  fastidious  circles  in  England,  and  even  in 
Paris;  for  society,  so  indiff"erent  to  those  who  disdain  it, 
overwhelms  with  its  gratitude  —  profuse  though  brief  — 
those  who  devote  themselves  to  its  amusement.     The 


THE   DISOWNED.  149 

victim  to  sameness  and  ennui,  it  offers,  like  the  pallid 
and  luxurious  Roman,  a  reward  for  a  new  pleasure;  and, 
as  long  as  our  industry  or  talent  can  afford  the  pleasure, 
the  reward  is  ours.  At  that  time,  then,  I  reaped  the 
full  harvest  of  my  exertions;  the  disappointment  and 
vexation  were  of  later  date. 

"I  now  come  to  the  great  era  of  my  life,  —  love. 
Among  my  acquaintance  was  Lady  jMary  AValden,  a 
widow  of  high  birth,  and  noble,  though  not  powerful 
connections.  She  lived  about  twenty  miles  from  Lon- 
don, in  a  beautiful  retreat;  and,  though  not  rich,  her 
jointure,  rendered  ample  by  economy,  enabled  her  to 
indulge  her  love  of  society.  Her  house  was  always  as 
full  as  its  size  would  permit,  and  I  was  among  the  most 
welcome  of  its  visitors.  She  had  an  only  daughter, — 
even  now,  through  the  dim  mists  of  years,  that  beauti- 
ful and  fairy  form  rises  still  and  shining  before  me, 
undimmed  by  sorrow,  unfaded  by  time.  Caroline 
Walden  was  the  object  of  general  admiration,  and  her 
mother,  who  attributed  the  avidity  with  which  her  in- 
vitations were  accepted  by  all  the  wits  and  tine  gentle- 
men of  the  day  to  the  charms  of  her  own  conversation, 
little  suspected  the  face  and  wit  of  her  daughter  to  be 
the  magnet  of  attraction.  I  had  no  idea  at  that  time  of 
marriage,  still  less  could  I  have  entertained  such  a  no- 
tion, unless  the  step  had  greatly  exalted  my  rank  and 
prospects. 

"  The  poor  and  powerless  Caroline  Walden  was  there- 
fore the  last  person  for  whom  I  had  what  the  jargon  of 
mothers  terms  'serious  intentions.'  However,  I  was 
struck  with  her  exceeding  loveliness,  and  amused  by  the 
vivacity  of  her  manners;  moreover,  my  vanity  was  ex- 
cited by  the  hope  of  distancing  all  my  competitors  for 
the   smiles  of  the  young  beauty.     Accordingly,  I  laid 


150  THE   DISOWNED. 

myself  out  to  please,  ami  neglected  none  of  those  subtle 
and  almost  secret  attentions  which,  of  all  flatteries,  are 
the  most  delicate  and  successful ;  and  I  succeeded. 
Caroline  loved  me  with  all  the  earnestness  and  devotion 
which  characterize  the  love  of  woman.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  her  that  I  was  only  trifling  with  those  affec- 
tions which  it  seemed  so  ardently  my  intention  to  win. 
She  knew  that  my  fortune  was  large  enough  to  dispense 
with  the  necessity  of  fortune  with  my  wife,  and  in  birth 
she  would  have  equalled  men  of  greater  pretensions  to 
myself;  added  to  this,  long  adulation  had  made  her 
sensible,  though  not  vain  of  her  attractions,  and  she 
listened  with  a  credulous  ear  to  the  insinuated  flatteries 
I  was  so  well  accustomed  to  instil. 

"Never  shall  I  forget  —  no,  though  I  double  my 
present  years  —  the  shock,  the  wildness  of  despair  with 
which  she  first  detected  the  selfishness  of  my  homage ; 
with  which  she  saw  tliat  I  had  only  mocked  her  trusting 
simplicitj'';  and  that  while  she  had  been  lavishing  the 
richest  treasures  of  her  heart  before  the  burning  altars  of 
Love,  my  idol  had  been  Vanity,  and  my  ofl"erings  deceit. 
She  tore  herself  from  the  profanation  of  my  grasp ;  she 
shrouded  herself  from  my  presence.  Ail  interviews  with 
me  were  rejected;  all  my  letters  returned  to  me  un- 
opened; and  though,  in  the  repentance  of  my  heart,  I 
entreated,  I  urged  her  to  accept  vows  that  were  no  longer 
insincere,  her  pride  became  her  punishment,  as  well  as 
my  own.  In  a  moment  of  bitter  and  desperate  feeling, 
she  accepted  the  offers  of  another,  and  made  the  marriage 
bond  a  fatal  and  irrevocable  barrier  to  our  reconciliation 
and  union. 

"  Oh !  how  I  now  cursed  my  infatuation ;  how  passion- 
ately I  recalled  the  past!  how  coldly  I  turned  from  the 
hollow  and  false  world,  to  whose  service  I  had  sacrificed 


THE   DISOWNED.  151 

my  happiness,  to  muse  and  madden  over  the  prospects  I 
had  destroyed,  and  the  loving  and  noble  heart  I  had  re- 
jected! Alas!  after  all,  what  is  so  ungrateful  as  that 
world  for  which  we  renounce  so  much !  Its  votaries  re- 
semble the  Gymnosophists  of  old,  and  while  they  pro- 
fess to  make  their  chief  end  pleasure,  we  can  only  learn 
that  they  expose  themselves  to  every  torture  and  every 
pain! 

"  Lord  Merton,  the  man  whom  Caroline  now  called 
husband,  was  among  the  wealthiest  and  most  dissipated 
of  his  order;  and  two  years  after  our  separation  I  met 
once  more  with  the  victim  of  my  unworthiness,  blazing 
in  'the  full  front '  of  courtly  splendor,  —  the  leader  of 
its  gayeties,  and  the  cynosure  of  her  followers.  Inti- 
mate with  the  same  society,  we  were  perpetually  cast  to- 
gether, and  Caroline  was  proud  of  displaying  the  indiffer- 
ence towards  me,  which,  if  she  felt  not,  she  had  at  least 
learned  artfully  to  assume.  This  indifference  was  her 
ruin.  The  depths  of  my  evil  passion  were  again  sounded 
and  aroused,  and  I  resolved  yet  to  humble  the  pride  and 
conquer  the  coldness  which  galled  to  the  very  quick  the 
morbid  acuteness  of  my  self-love.  I  again  attached  my- 
self to  her  train, —  I  bowed  myself  to  the  very  dust  before 
her.  What  to  me  were  her  chilling  reply  and  disdainful 
civilities!  —  only  still  stronger  excitements  to  persevere. 

"  I  spare  you  and  myself  the  gradual  progress  of  my 
schemes.  A  woman  may  recover  her  first  passion,  it  is 
true ;  but  then  she  must  replace  it  with  another.  That 
other  was  denied  to  Caroline :  she  had  not  even  children 
to  engross  her  thoughts  and  to  occupy  her  affections; 
and  the  gay  world,  which  to  many  becomes  an  object, 
■was  to  her  only  an  escape. 

"Clarence,  my  triumph  came!  Lady  AYalden  (who 
had   never  known  our  secret)  invited  me  to  her  house: 


lo2  THE   DISOWNED. 

Caroline  was  there.  In  the  same  spot  where  we  had  so 
often  stood  before,  and  in  Avhich  her  earliest  aflections 
were  insensibly  breathed  away,  in  that  same  spot  I  drew 
from  her  colorless  and  trembling  lips  the  confession  of 
her  weakness,  the  restored  and  pervading  power  of  my 
remembrance. 

"  But  Caroline  was  a  proud  and  virtuous  woman :  even 
while  her  heart  betrayed  her,  her  mind  resisted;  and  in 
the  very  avowal  of  her  unconquered  attachment,  she 
renounced  and  discarded  me  forever.  I  was  not  an  im- 
generous,  though  a  vain  man;  but  my  generosity  was 
wayward,  tainted,  and  imperfect.  I  could  have  borne 
the  separation;  I  could  have  severed  myself  from  her; 
I  could  have  flown  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth ;  I 
could  have  hoarded  there  my  secret  yet  unextinguished 
love,  and.  never  disturbed  her  quiet  by  a  murmur;  but 
then  the  fiat  of  separation  must  have  come  from  7ne  ! 
My  vanity  could  not  bear  tliat  her  lips  should  reject  me ; 
that  my  part  was  not  to  be  the  nobility  of  sacrifice,  but 
the  submission  of  resignation.  However,  my  better 
feelings  were  aroused,  and  though  I  could  not  stifle,  I 
concealed,  my  selfish  repinings.  We  parted:  she  re- 
turned to  town,  I  buried  myself  in  the  country;  and 
amidst  the  literary  studies  to  which,  though  by  fits  and 
starts,  I  was  passionately  devoted,  I  endeavored  to  forget 
my  ominous  and  guilty  love. 

"  But  I  was  then  too  closely  bound  to  the  world  not  to 
be  perpetually  reminded  of  its  events.  My  retreat  was 
thronged  with  occasional  migrators  from  London;  my 
books  were  mingled  with  the  news  and  scandal  of  the 
day.  All  spoke  to  me  of  Lady  ^Nferton;  not  as  I  loved 
to  picture  her  to  myself,  pale  and  sorrowful,  and  brood- 
ing over  my  image,  but  gay,  dissipated,  the  dispenser 
of  smiles,  the  prototype^  of  joy,     1  contrasted  this  ac- 


THE   DISOWNED.  153 

count  of  her  with  the  melancholy  and  gloom  of  my  own 
feelings,  and  1  resented  her  seeming  happiness  as  an  in- 
sult to  myself. 

"  In  this  angry  and  fretful  mood  I  returned  to  London. 
My  empire  was  soon  resumed;  and  now,  Linden,  comes 
the  most  sickening  part  of  my  confessions.  Vanity  is  a 
growing  and  insatiable  disease :  what  seems  to  its  desires 
as  wealth  to-day,  to-morrow  it  rejects  as  poverty.  I  was 
at  first  contented  to  know  that  I  was  beloved;  by  de- 
grees, slow,  yet  sure,  I  desired  that  others  should  know 
it  also.  I  longed  to  display  my  power  over  the  cele- 
brated and  courted  Lady  Merton;  and  to  put  the  last 
crown  to  my  reputation  and  importance.  The  envy  of 
others  is  the  food  of  our  own  self-love.  Oh,  you  know 
not,  you  dream  not,  of  the  galling  mortifications  to 
which  a  proud  woman,  whose  love  commands  her  pride, 
is  subjected!  I  imposed  upon  Caroline  the  most  humili- 
ating, the  most  painful  trials;  I  would  allow  her  to  see 
none  but  those  I  pleased;  to  go  to  no  place  where  I 
withheld  my  consent;  and  I  hesitated  not  to  exert  and 
testify  my  power  over  her  affections,  in  proportion  to 
the  publicity  of  the  opportunity. 

"  Yet,  with  all  this  littleness,  would  you  believe  that 
I  loved  Caroline  with  the  most  ardent  and  engrossing 
passion  1  I  have  paused  behind  her,  in  order  to  kiss 
the  ground  she  trod  on ;  I  have  stayed  whole  nights  be- 
neath her  window,  to  catch  one  glimpse  of  her  passing 
form,  even  though  I  had  spent  hours  of  the  day-time  in. 
her  society ;  and,  though  ray  love  burned  and  consumed 
me  like  a  fire,  I  would  not  breathe  a  single  wish  against 
her  innocence,  or  take  advantage  of  my  power  to  accom- 
plish what  I  knew,  from  her  virtue  and  pride,  no  atone- 
ment could  possibly  repay.  Such  are  the  inconsistencies 
of  the  heart,  and  such ,  while  they  prevent  our  perfection 


154  Till-:   DISOWNED. 

redeem  us  from  the  utterness  of  vice !  Never,  even  in  my 
Avildest  days,  was  I  blind  to  the  glory  of  virtue,  yet  never, 
till  my  latest  years,  have  I  enjoyed  tlie  faculty  to  avail 
myself  of  my  perception.  I_  resembled  the  mole,  Avhich 
by  Boyle  is  supposed  to  possess  the  idea  of  light,  but  to 
be  unable  Lo  comprehend  the  objects  on  which  it  shines. 
"  Among  the  varieties  of  my  prevailing  sin,  was  a 
Aveakness,  common  enough  to  worldly  men.  While  1 
ostentatiously  played  off  the  love  I  had  excited,  I  could 
not  bear  to  show  the  love  I  felt.  In  our  country,  and 
perhaps,  though  in  a  less  degree,  in  all  other  highly 
artificial  states,  enthusiasm,  or  even  feeling  of  any  kind, 
is  ridiculous;  and  I  could  not  endure  the  thought  that 
my  treasured  and  secret  affections  should  be  dragged 
from  their  retreat,  to  be  cavilled  and  carped  at  by 

Every  beardless,  vain  comparative. 

"  This  weakness  brought  on  the  catastrophe  of  my 
love;  for,  mark  me,  Clarence,  it  is  through  our  weakness 
that  our  vices  are  punished!  One  night  I  went  to  a 
masquerade ;  and  while  I  was  sitting  in  a  remote  cor- 
ner, three  of  my  acquaintances,  whom  I  recognized, 
though  they  knew  it  not,  approached  and  rallied  me 
upon  my  romantic  attachment  to  Lady  IMerton.  One 
of  them  was  a  woman  of  a  malicious  and  sarcastic  Avit; 
the  other  two  were  men  whom  I  disliked,  because  their 
pretensions  interfered  with  mine:  they  were  diners-out, 
and  anecdote-mongers.  Stung  to  the  quick  by  their  sar- 
casms and  laughter,  T  replied  in  a  train  of  mingled  arro- 
gance and  jest;  at  last  I  spoke  slightingly  of  the  person 
in  question;  and  these  profane  and  false  lips  dared  not 
only  to  disown  the  faintest  love  to  that  being  who  was 
more  to  me  than  all  on  earth,  but  even  to  speak  of  her- 
self with  ridicule,  and  her  affection  with  disdain. 


THE   DISOWNED.  155 

"  In  the  midst  of  this,  I  turned  and  beheld,  within 
hearing,  a  figure  which  I  knew  upon  the  moment.  O 
Heaven!  the  burning  shame  and  agony  of  that  glance! 
It  raised  its  mask;  I  saw  that  blanched  cheek,  and 
that  trembling  lip  I  and  I  knew  that  the  iron  had  indeed 
entered  into  her  3cul, 

"  Clarence,  I  never  beheld  her  again  alive.  Within 
a  week  from  that  time  she  was  a  corpse.  She  had  borne 
much,  suffered  much,  and  murmured  not;  but  this  shock 
pressed  too  hard,  came  too  home,  and  from  the  hand  of 
him  for  whom  she  would  have  sacrificed  all!  I  stood  by 
her  in  death ;  I  beheld  my  work ;  and  I  turned  away,  a 
wanderer  and  a  pilgrim  upon  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Verily,  I  have  had  my  reward." 

The  old  man  paused,  in  great  emotion;  and  Clarence, 
who  could  offer  him  no  consolation,  did  not  break  the 
silence.      In  a  few  minutes  Talbot  continued,  — 

"  From  that  time  the  smile  of  woman  was  nothing  to 
me;  I  seemed  to  grow  old  in  a  single  day.  Life  lost 
to  me  all  its  objects.  A  dreary  and  desert  blank 
stretched  itself  before  me ;  the  sounds  of  creation  had 
only  in  my  ears  one  voice;  the  past,  the  future,  one 
image.  I  left  my  country  for  twenty  years,  and  lived 
an  idle  and  hopeless  man  in  the  various  courts  of  the 
Continent. 

"At  the  age  of  fifty  I  returned  to  England.  The 
wounds  of  the  past  had  not  disappeared,  but  they  were 
scarred  over;  and  I  longed,  like  the  rest  of  my  species, 
to  have  an  object  in  view.  At  that  age,  if  we  have  seen 
much  of  mankind,  and  possess  the  talents  to  profit  by 
our  knowledge,  we  must  be  one  of  two  sects:  a  politi- 
cian or  a  philosopher.  My  time  was  not  yet  arrived 
for  the  latter,  so  I  resolved  to  become  the  former;  but 
this  was  denied  me,  for  my  vanity  had  assumed  a  differ- 


153  THE    DISOWNED. 

cnt  shape.  It  is  true  that  I  caroil  no  hmger  for  the 
reputation  women  can  bestow ;  but  I  was  eager  for  the 
applause  of  men,  and  I  did  not  like  the  long  labor 
necessary  to  attain  it.  I  wished  to  make  a  short  road  to 
my  object,  and  I  eagerly  followed  every  turn  but  the 
right  one,  in  the  hopes  of  its  leading  me  sooner  to  my 
goal. 

"  The  great  characteristic  of  a  vain  man,  in  contradis- 
tinction to  an  ambitious  man,  and  his  eternal  obstacle  to 
a  high  and  honorable  fame,  is  tliis:  he  requires  for  any 
expenditure  of  trouble  too  speedy  a  reward ;  lie  cannot 
wait  for  years,  and  climb,  step  by  step,  to  a  lofty  object; 
whatever  he  attempts,  he  must  seize  at  a  single  grasp. 
Added  to  this,  he  is  incapable  of  an  exclusive  attention 
to  one  end ;  the  universality  of  liis  cravings  is  not  con- 
tented, unless  it  devours  all;  and  thus  he  is  perpetually 
doomed  to  fritter  away  his  energies  by  grasping  at  the 
trifling  baubles  within  his  reach,  and  in  gathering  the 
worthless  fruit,  which  a  single  sun  can  mature, 

"This,  then,  was  my  fault,  and  the  cause  of  my  fail- 
ure. I  could  not  give  myself  up  to  finance,  nor  puzzle 
through  the  intricacies  of  commerce:  even  the  common 
l^arliamentary  drudgeries  of  constant  attendance  and  late 
liours,  were  insupportable  to  me ;  and  so,  after  two  or 
tliree  'splendid  orations,'  as  my  friends  termed  them,  I 
was  satisfied  with  the  puffs  of  the  pamphleteers,  and 
closed  my  political  career.  I  was  now,  then,  the  wit 
and  the  conversationalist.  With  my  fluency  of  speech  and 
variety  of  information,  these  were  easy  distinctions;  and 
the  popularity  of  a  dinner-table,  or  the  approbation  of  a 
literary  coterie,  consoled  me  for  the  more  public  and 
more  durable  applause  I  had  resigned. 

"  l^>ut  even  this  gratification  did  not  last  long.  T  fell 
ill;  and  the  friends  who  gathered  round  the  wit,  fled 


THE   DISOWNED.  157 

from  the  valetudinarian.  This  disgusted  me ,  and  when 
I  was  sufficiently  recovered,  I  again  returned  to  the 
Continent.  But  I  had  a  fit  of  misanthropy  and  solitude 
upon  me,  and  so  it  was  not  to  courts  and  cities,  the 
scenes  of  former  gayeties,  that  I  repaired;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  hired  a  house  by  one  of  the  most  sequestered  of 
the  Swiss  lakes,  and,  avoiding  the  living,  I  surrendered 
myself,  without  interruption  or  control,  to  commune 
with  the  dead.  I  surrounded  myself  with  books,  and 
pored,  with  a  curious  and  searching  eye,  into  those 
works  which  treat  particularly  upon  'man.'  My  pas- 
sions were  over,  my  love  of  pleasure  and  society  was 
dried  up,  and  I  had  now  no  longer  the  obstacles  which 
forbid  us  to  be  wise ;  I  unlearned  the  precepts  my  man- 
hood had  acquired,  and  in  my  old  age  I  commenced  phi- 
losopher; Religion  lent  me  her  aid,  and  by  her  holy 
lamp  my  studies  were  conned  and  my  hermitage  illu- 
mined. 

"There  are  certain  characters  which,  in  the  world, 
are  evil,  and  in  seclusion  are  good:  Rousseau,  whom  I 
know  well,  is  one  of  them.  These  persons  are  of  a 
morbid  sensitiveness,  which  is  perpetually  galled  by 
collision  with  others.  In  short,  they  are  under  the  do- 
minion of  vanity;  and  that  vanity,  never  satisfied,  and 
always  restless  in  the  various  competitions  of  society, 
produces  'envy,  malice,  hatred,  and  all  uncharitable- 
ness! '  But,  in  solitude,  the  good  and  benevolent  dispo- 
sitions with  which  our  self-love  no  longer  interferes, 
have  room  to  expand  and  ripen  without  being  cramped 
by  opposing  interests:  this  will  account  for  many 
seeming  discrepancies  in  character.  There  are  also  some 
men  in  whom  old  age  supplies  the  place  of  solitude, 
and  Rousseau's  antagonist  and  mental  antipodes,  Vol- 
taire,  is  of  this  order.     The  pert,  the  malignant,  the 


158  THE    DISOWNED. 

arrogant,  the  lampooning  author,  in  his  youth  and  man- 
hood, has  become,  in  his  old  age,  the  mild,  the  benevo- 
lent, and  the  venerable  philosopher.  Nothing  is  more 
absurd  than  to  receive  the  characters  of  great  men  so  im- 
plicitly upon  the  word  of  a  biographer;  and  nothing 
can  be  less  surprising  than  our  eternal  disputes  upon 
individuals;  for  no  man  throughout  life  is  the  same 
being,  and  each  season  of  our  existence  contradicts  the 
characteristics  of  the   last. 

"  And  now,  in  my  solitude  and  my  old  age,  a  new 
spirit  entered  within  me ;  the  game  in  which  I  had 
engaged  so  vehemently  was  over  for  me ;  and  I  joined 
to  my  experience  as  a  player,  my  coolness  as  a  spectator. 
I  no  longer  struggled  with  my  s})ecies,  and  I  began 
insensibly  to  love  them.  I  established  schools,  and 
founded  charities;  and  in  secret,  but  active,  services  to 
mankind,  I  employed  my  exertions  and  lavished  my 
desires. 

"  From  this  amendment  I  date  the  peace  of  mind  and 
elasticity  which  I  now  enjoy;  and  in  my  later  years, 
the  happiness  Avhich  I  pursued  in  my  youth  and  maturity 
so  hotly,  yet  so  inetfectually,  has  flown  misolicited  to 
my  breast. 

"  About  five  years  ago  I  came  again  to  England,  with 
the  intention  of  breathing  my  last  in  the  country  which 
gave  me  birth.  I  retired  to  my  family  home;  I  en- 
deavored to  divert  myself  in  agricultural  improvements, 
and  my  rental  was  consumed  in  speculation.  This  did 
not  please  me  long;  I  sought  society, —  society  in  York- 
shire! You  may  imagine  the  result:  I  was  out  of  my 
element;  the  mere  distance  from  the  metropolis,  from 
all  genial  companionship,  sickened  me  with  a  vague 
feeling  of  desertion  and  solitude ;  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  felt  my  age  and  my  celibacy.     Once  more  I 


THE   DISOWNED.  159 

returned  to  town ;  a  complaint  attacked  my  lungs ,  tlie 
physicians  recommended  the  air  of  this  neighborhood, 
and  I  chose  the  residence  I  now  inhabit.  Without 
being  exactly  in  London,  I  can  command  its  advan- 
tages, and  obtain  society  as  a  recreation,  without  buying 
it  by  restraint.  I  am  not  fond  of  new  faces,  nor  any 
longer  covetous  of  show;  my  old  servant  therefore  con- 
tented me;  for  the  future,  I  shall,  however,  satisfy 
your  fears,  remove  to  a  safer  habitation,  and  obtain  a 
more  numerous  guard.  It  is,  at  all  events,  a  happiness  to 
me  that  fate,  in  casting  me  here,  and  exposing  me  to 
something  of  danger,  has  raised  up,  in  you,  a  friend  for 
my  old  age,  and  selected  from  this  great  universe  of 
strangers  one  being  to  convince  my  heart  that  it  has 
not  outlived  affection.  My  tale  is  done:  may  you 
profit  by  its  moral !  " 

When  Talbot  said  that  our  characters  were  underfroinsr 
a  perpetual  change,  he  should  have  made  this  reserva- 
tion, the  one  ruling  passion  remains  to  the  last;  it  may 
be  modified,  but  it  never  departs:  and  it  is  these  modifi- 
cations which  do,  for  the  most  part,  shape  out  the  chan- 
nels of  our  change,  or,  as  Helvetius  has  beautifully  ex- 
jiressed  it,  "  we  resemble  those  vessels  which  the  waves 
still  carry  towards  the  south,  when  the  north  wind  has 
ceased  to  blow;"  but  in  our  old  age,  this  passion, 
having  little  to  feed  on,  becomes  sometimes  dormant 
and  inert,  and  then  our  good  qualities  rise,  as  it  were, 
from  an  incubus,  and  have  their  sway. 

Yet  these  cases  are  not  common,  and  Talbot  was  a 
remarkable  instance,  for  he  was  a  remarkable  man.  His 
mind  had  not  slept  while  the  age  advanced,  and  thus  it 
had  swelled  as  it  were  from  the  bondage  of  its  earlier 
passions  and  prejudices.     But  little  did  he  think,  in  the 


IGO  THE  DISOWNED. 

Lliudness  of  self-delusion,  —  though  it  was  so  obvious  to 
Clarence  that  he  could  have  smiled  if  he  had  not  rather 
inclined  to  weep  at  the  frailties  of  human  nature, —  little 
did  he  think  that  the  vanity  which  had  cost  him  so 
much,  remained  "a  monarch  still,"  undeposed  alike  l)y 
his  philosophy,  his  religion,  or  his  remorse;  and  that, 
debarred  by  circumstances  from  all  wider  and  more  dan- 
gerous fields,  it  still  lavished  itself  upon  trifles  unworthy 
of  his  powers,  and  puerilities  dishonoring  his  age. 
Folly  is  a  courtesan  whom  we  ourselves  seek,  Avhose 
favors  we  solicit  at  an  enormous  price,  and  who,  like 
Lais,  finds  philosophers  at  her  door,  scarcely  less  fre- 
quently than  the  rest  of  mankind! 


THE   DISOWNED.  161 


CHAPTEE  XXI. 

Mrs.  Trinket.     Wliat  d'  ye  buy, —  what  d'  ye  lack,  gentlemen  ? 
Gloves,  ribbons,  and  essences,  —  ribbons,  gloves,  and  essences. 

Etherege. 

"AxD  so;  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Copperas,  one  morning 
at  breakfast,  to  his  wife,  his  right  leg  being  turned  over 
his  left,  and  his  dexter  hand  conveying  to  his  mouth  a 
huge  morsel  of  buttered  cake,  —  "  and  so,  my  love,  they 
say  that  the  old  fool  is  going  to  leave  the  jackanapes  all 
his  fortune  ?  " 

"  They  do  say  so,  Mr.  C. :  for  my  part  I  am  quite  out 
of  patience  with  the  art  of  the  young  man ;  I  daresay  he 
is  no  better  than  he  should  be;  he  always  had  a  sharp 
look,  and  for  ought  I  know,  there  may  be  more  in  that 
robbery  than  you  or  I  dreamed  of,  Mr.  Copperas.  It  was 
a  pity,"  continued  Mrs.  Copperas,  uj)braiding  her  lord 
with  true  matrimonial  tenderness  and  justice,  for  the 
consequences  of  his  having  acted  from  7ie>' advice, —  "it 
was  a  pity,  Mr.  C,  that  you  should  have  refused  to 
lend  him  the  pistols  to  go  to  the  old  fellow's  assistance, 
for  then  who  knows  but  —  " 

"  I  might  have  converted  them  into  pocTcet  pistols, " 
interrupted  Mr.  C,  "'  and  not  have  overshot  the  mark, 
my  dear,  —  ha,  ha,  ha !  " 

"  Lord,  jNIr.  Copperas,  you  are  always  making  a  joke 
of  everything. " 

"  No,  my  dear,  for  once  I  am  making  a  joke  of 
nothing. " 

VOL.  I.  — 11 


162  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  AVell,  I  declare  it 's  shameful, "  cried  IMrs.  Copperas, 
still  following  up  her  own  indignant  meditations,  "  and 
after  taking  such  notice  of  Adolphus,  too,  and  all !  " 

"  Notice,  my  dear !  mere  words, "  returned  Mr.  Cop- 
peras,—  "  mere  words,  like  ventilators,  which  make  a  great 
deal  of  air,  but  never  raise  the  wind;  but  don't  put 
yourself  in  a  steio,  my  love,  for  the  doctors  say  that  copr 
per  as  in  a  stew  is  poison !  " 

At  this  moment,  Mr.  de  Warens,  throwing  open  the 
door,  announced  Mr.  Brown:  that  gentleman  entered, 
with  a  sedate,  but  cheerful  air.  "  Well,  ]\Irs.  Copperas, 
your  servant;  any  table-linen  wanted?  INIr.  Copperas, 
how  do  you  do  1  I  can  give  you  a  hint  about  the  stocks. 
Master  Copperas,  you  are  looking  bravely;  don't  you 
think  he  wants  some  new  pinbefores,  ma'am  1  But  Mr. 
Clarence  Linden,  where  is  he  1  Not  up  yet,  I  daresay  ? 
Ah,  the  present  generation  is  a  generation  of  sluggards, 
as  his  Avorthy  aunt,  Mrs.  Minden,  used  to  say." 

"  I  am  sure, "  said  Mrs.  Copperas,  with  a  disdainful 
toss  of  the  head,  "  I  know  nothing  about  the  young  man. 
He  has  left  us :  a  very  mysterious  piece  of  business,  in- 
deed, Mr.  Brown;  and  now  I  think  of  it,  I  can't  help 
saying  that  we  were  by  no  means  pleased  with  your  intro- 
duction ;  and,  by  the  by,  the  chairs  you  bought  for  us  at 
the  sale  were  a  mere  take-in,  so  slight  that  Mr.  Walruss 
broke  two  of  them  by  only  sitting  down. " 

"  Indeed,  ma'am  1  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  with  expostulat- 
ing gravity ;  "  but  then  Mr.  Walruss  is  so  very  corpulent. 
But  the  young  gentleman,  what  of  him?  "  continued  the 
broker,  artfully  turning  from  the  point  in  dispute. 

"  Lord,  Mr.  Brown,  don't  ask  me :  it  was  the  unluck- 
iest  step  we  ever  made  to  admit  him  into  the  bosom  of 
our  family;  quit(>  a  viper,  I  assure  you;  absolutely 
robbed  poor  Adolphus." 


THE   DISOWNED.  163 

"  Lord  help  us !  "  said  Mr.  Brown,  with  a  look  which 
"  cast  a  browner  horror  "  o'er  the  room ;  "  who  would 
have  thought  it  1    And  such  a  pretty  young  man !  " 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Copperas,  who,  occupied  in  finish- 
ing the  buttered  cake,  had  hitherto  kept  silence,  "I 
must  be  off.  Tom, —  I  mean  De  Warens,  —  have  you 
stopped  the  coach  1  " 

"  Yees,  sir. " 

"  And  what  coach  is  it  1  " 

"  It  be  the  Swallow,  sir. " 

"  Oh,  very  well.  And  now,  Mr.  Brown,  having  swal- 
lowed in  the  roll,  I  will  e'en  roll  in  the  Swallow, — 
ha,  ha,  ha !  At  any  rate, "  thought  Mr.  Copperas,  as  he 
descended  the  stairs;  "  7ie  has  not  heard  that  before." 

"  Ha,  ha !  "  gravely  chuckled  INIr.  Brown ;  "  what  a 
very  facetious,  lively  gentleman  Mr.  Copperas  is.  But 
touching  this  ungrateful  yoimg  man,  Mr.  Linden, 
ma'am  1  " 

"  Oh,  don't  tease  me,  Mr.  Brown,  I  must  see  after  my 
domestics;  ask  Mr.  Talbot,  the  old  miser,  in  the  next 
house,  the  havarr,  as  the  French  say. " 

"  Well,  now, "  said  Mr.  Brown,  following  the  good 
lady  downstairs,  —  "  how  distressing  for  me :  and  to  say 
that  he  was  Mrs.  Minden's  nephew,  too !  " 

But  Mr.  Brown's  curiosity  was  not  so  easily  satisfied, 
and  finding  Mr.  de  Warens  leaning  over  the  "  front " 
gate,  and  "  pursuing  with  wistful  eyes  "  the  departing 
"  Swallow, "  he  stopped,  and,  accosting  him,  soon  pos- 
sessed himself  of  the  facts  that  "  old  Talbot  had  been 
robbed  and  murdered,  but  that  Mr.  Linden  had  brought 
him  to  life  again;  and  that  old  Talbot  had  given  him 
a  hundred  thousand  pounds ,  and  adopted  him  as  his  son ; 
and  that  how  Mr.  Linden  was  going  to  be  sent  to  foreign 
parts,  as  an  ambassador,  or  governor,  or  great  person; 


1C4  THE   DISOWNED. 

and  that  how  mccster  and  ineescs  were  quite  '  cut  ujj ' 
about  it." 

All  these  particulars  having  been  duly  deposited  in 
the  mind  of  Mr.  Brown,  they  produced  an  immediate 
desire  to  call  upon  the  young  gentleman,  who,  to  say 
nothing  of  his  being  so  very  nearly  related  to  his  old 
customer  Mrs.  Minden,  was  always  so  very  great  a 
favorite  with  him,  Mr.  Brown. 

Accordingly,  as  Clarence  was  musing  over  his  ap- 
proaching departure,  which  was  now  very  shortly  to 
take  place,  he  was  somewhat  startled  by  the  apparition 
of  Mr.  Brown,  "  Charming  day,  sir,  —  charming  day, " 
said  the  friend  of  Mrs.  Minden,  —  "  just  called  m  to  con- 
gratulate you.  I  have  a  few  articles,  sir,  to  present 
you  with :  quite  rarities,  I  assure  you,  —  quite  presents, 
I  may  say.  I  picked  them  up  at  a  sale  of  the  late 
Lady  Waddilove's  most  valuable  effects.  They  are  just 
the  things,  sir,  for  a  gentleman  going  on  a  foreign  mis- 
sion. A  most  curious  ivory  chest,  with  an  Indian  pad- 
lock, to  hold  confidential  letters,  —  belonged  formerly, 
sir,  to  the  Great  Mogul;  and  a  beautiful  diamond  snutf- 
box,  sir,  with  a  picture  of  Louis  XIV.  on  it,  prodig- 
iously fine,  and  will  look  so  loyal,  too;  and,  sir,  if  you 
have  any  old  aunts  in  the  country,  to  send  a  farewell 
present  to,  I  have  some  charmingly  fine  cambric,  a  su- 
perb Dresden  tea-set,  and  a  lovely  little  '  ape, '  stuffed  by 
the  late  Lady  W.  herself." 

"  My  good  sir  —  "  began  Clarence. 

"Oil,  no  thanks,  sir,  none  at  all;  too  happy  to  serve 
a  relation  of  Mrs.  Minden,  —  always  proud  to  keep  up 
family  connections.  You  will  be  at  home  to-morrow,  sir, 
at  eleven  1  I  will  look  in,  —  your  most  humble  servant, 
Mr.  Linden."  And,  almost  upsetthig  Talbot,  who  had 
just  entered,  Mr.  Brown  bowed  himself  out. 


THE   DISOWNED.  165 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

We  talked  with  open  heart  and  tongue 

Affectionate  and  true 
A  pair  of  friends,  thoiigli  I  was  young 

And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

Wordsworth. 

Meanwhile  the  young  artist  proceeded  rapidly  with 
his  picture.  Devoured  by  his  enthusiasm,  and  utterly 
engrossed  by  the  sanguine  anticipation  of  a  fame  which 
appeared  to  him  already  won,  he  allowed  himself  no 
momentary  interval  of  relaxation;  his  food  was  eaten 
by  starts,  and  without  stirring  from  his  easel;  his  sleep 
was  broken  and  brief  by  feverish  dreams;  he  no  longer 
roved  with  Clarence,  when  the  evening  threw  her  shade 
over  his  labors;  all  air  and  exercise  he  utterly  relin- 
quished; shut  up  in  his  narrow  chamber,  he  passed 
the  hours  in  a  fervid  and  passionate  self -commune,  which, 
even  in  suspense  from  his  work,  riveted  his  thoughts  the 
closer  to  its  object.  All  companionship,  all  intrusion, 
he  bore  with  irritability  and  impatience.  Even  Clarence 
found  himself  excluded  from  the  presence  of  his  friend; 
even  his  nearest  relation,  who  doated  on  the  very  ground 
which  he  hallowed  with  his  footstep,  was  banished  from 
the  haunted  sanctuary  of  the  painter;  from  the  most 
placid  of  human  beings,  Warner  seemed  to  have  grown 
the  most  morose. 

Want  of  rest,  abstinence  from  food,  the  impatience 
of  the  strained  spirit  and  jaded  nerves,  —  all  contributed 
to  waste  the  health,  while  they  excited  the  genius  of 
the  artist.     A   crimson   spot,  never   before   seen   there, 


166  THE   DISOWNED. 

burned  in  the  centre  of  his  pale  cheek ;  his  eye  glowed 
with  a  brilliant,  but  imnatural  fire;  his  features  grew 
sharp  and  attenuated;  his  bones  worked  from  his  whiten- 
ing and  transparent  skin ;  and  the  soul  and  frame,  turned 
from  their  proper  and  kindly  union,  seemed  contesting 
with  fierce  struggles,  which  should  obtain  the  mastery 
and  the  triumph. 

But  neither  his  new  prospects,  nor  the  coldness  of  his 
friend,  diverted  the  warm  heart  of  Clarence  from  medi- 
tating how  he  could  most  effectually  serve  the  artist 
before  he  departed  from  the  country.  It  was  a  peculiar 
object  of  desire  to  Warner  that  the  most  celebrated 
painter  of  the  day,  who  was  in  terms  of  intimacy  with 
Talbot,  and  who,  with  the  benevolence  of  real  superior- 
ity was  known  to  take  a  keen  interest  in  the  success  of 
more  youthful  and  inexperienced  genius,  —  it  was  a  pe- 
culiar object  of  desire  to  Warner  that  Sir  Joshua  Rey- 
nolds should  see  his  picture  before  it  was  completed ;  and 
Clarence,  aware  of  this  wish,  easily  obtained  from  Talbot 
a  promise  that  it  should  be  effected.  That  was  the  least 
service  of  his  zeal:  touched  by  the  earnestness  of  Lin- 
den's friendship,  anxious  to  oblige  in  any  way  his  pre- 
server, and  well  pleased  himself  to  be  tlie  patron  of 
merit,  Talbot  readily  engaged  to  obtain  for  Warner 
whatever  the  attention  and  favor  of  high  rank  or  literary 
distinction  could  bestow.  "  As  for  his  picture, "  said 
Talbot  (when,  the  evening  before  Clarence's  departure, 
the  latter  was  renewing  the  subject),  "  I  shall  niyself 
become  the  purchaser,  and  at  a  price  which  will  enable 
our  friend  to  afford  leisure  and  study  for  the  completion 
of  his  next  attempt;  but  even  at  the  risk  of  offending 
your  friendship,  and  disappointing  your  expectations, 
I  Avill  frankly  tell  you  that  I  think  Warner  overrates, 
perhaps  not  his  talents,  but  his  powers;  not  his  ability 


THE   DISOWNED.  167 

for  doing  something  great  hereafter,  hnt  his  capacity  of 
doing  it  at  present.  In  the  pride  of  his  heart  he  has 
shown  me  many  of  liis  designs,  and  I  am  somewhat  of  a 
judge;  they  want  experience,  cultivation,  taste,  and, 
above  all,  a  deeper  study  of  the  Italian  masters.  They 
all  have  the  defects  of  a  feverish  coloring,  an  ambitious 
desire  of  effect,  a  wavering  and  imperfect  outline,  an 
ostentatious  and  unnatural  strength  of  light  and  shadow ; 
they  show,  it  is  true,  a  genius  of  no  ordinary  stamp,  but 
one  ill-regulated,  inexperienced,  and  utterly  left  to  its 
own  suggestions  for  a  model.  However,  I  am  glad  he 
wishes  for  the  opmion  of  one  necessarily  the  best  judge : 
let  him  bring  the  picture  here  by  Thursday;  on  that 
day  my  friend  has  promised  to  visit  me ;  and  now  let  us 
talk  of  you  and  your  departure. " 

The  intercourse  of  men  of  different  ages  is  essentially 
unequal:  it  must  always  partake  more  or  less  of  advice 
on  one  side,  and  deference  on  the  other;  and  although 
the  easy  and  unpedantic  turn  of  Talbot's  conversation 
made  his  remarks  rather  entertaining  than  obviously 
admonitory,  yet  they  were  necessarily  tinged  by  his  ex- 
perience, and  regulated  by  his  interest  in  the  fortunes  of 
his  young  friend. 

"  My  dearest  Clarence, "  said  he,  affectionately ;  "  we 
are  about  to  bid  each  other  a  long  farewell.  I  will  not 
damp  your  hopes  and  anticipations  by  insisting  on  the 
little  chance  there  is  that  you  should  ever  see  me  again. 
You  are  about  to  enter  upon  the  great  world,  and  have 
within  you  the  desire  and  the  power  of  success ;  let  me 
flatter  myself  that  you  can  profit  by  my  experience. 
Among  the  Colloquia  of  Erasmus  there  is  a  very  enter- 
taming  dialogvie  between  Apicius  and  a  man  wdio,  de- 
sirous of  giving  a  feast  to  a  very  large  and  miscellaneous 
party,    comes  to  consult   the  epicure  what  will  be  the 


IBS  THE    DISOWNED. 

best  means  to  give  satisfaction  to  all.  Now,  you  shall 
be  this  Spiultpus  (so  I  think  he  is  called),  and  I  will  he 
Apicius;  for  tlie  world,  after  all,  is  nothing  more  than  a 
great  feast  of  different  strangers,  with  diUcrent  tastes, 
and  of  different  ages,  and  we  must  learn  to  adapt  our- 
selves to  their  minds,  and  our  temptations  to  their 
passions,  if  we  wish  to  fascinate  or  even  to  content  tliem. 
Let  nie  then  call  your  attention  to  the  hints  and  maxims 
which  I  liave  in  tliis  paper  amused  myself  with  drawing 
up  for  your  instruction.  Write  to  me  from  time  to 
time,  and  I  will,  in  replying  to  your  letters,  give  you 
the  best  advice  in  my  power.  For  the  rest,  my  dear 
boy,  I  have  only  to  request  that  you  will  be  frank ;  and 
I,  in  my  turn,  will  promise  that  when  I  cannot  assist,  I 
will  never  reprove.  And  now,  Clarence,  as  the  hour  is 
late,  and  you  leave  us  early  to-morrow,  I  will  no  longer 
detain  you.  God  bless  you,  and  keep  you.  You  are 
going  to  enjoy  life,  I  to  anticipate  death;  so  that  you 
can  find  in  me  little  congenial  to  yourself;  but  as  the 
good  Pope  said  to  our  Protestant  countryman,  'What- 
ever the  difference  between  us,  I  know  well  that  an  old 
man's  blessing  is  never  without  its  value.'  " 

As  Clarence  clasped  his  benefactor's  hand,  the  tears 
gushed  from  his  eyes.  Is  there  one  being,  stubborn  as 
the  rock  to  misfortune,  whom  kindness  does  not  affect  ? 
For  my  part,  kindness  seems  to  me  to  come  with  a 
double  grace  and  tenderness  from  the  old;  it  seems  in 
them  the  hoarded  and  long  purified  benevolence  of  years, 
—  as  if  it  had  survived  and  conquered  the  baseness  and 
selfishness  of  the  ordeal  it  had  passed;  as  if  the  winds, 
which  had  broken  tlie  form,  had  swept  in  vain  across  the 
heart,  and  the  frosts,  which  had  chilled  the  blood  and 
whitened  the  thin  locks,  had  possessed  no  power  over 
the  warm  tide  of  the  affections.     It  is  the  triumph  of 


THE   DISOWNED.  169 

nature  over  art;  it  is  the  voice  of  the  angel  which  is  yet 
within  us.  Nor  is  this  all:  the  tenderness  of  age  is 
twice  blessed,  —  blessed  in  its  trophies  over  the  obduracy 
of  incrusting  and  withering  years ;  blessed,  because  it  is 
tinged  with  the  sanctity  of  the  grave,  —  because  it  tells 
us  that  the  heart  will  blossom  even  upon  the  precincts  of 
the  tomb,  and  flatters  us  with  the  inviolacy  and  immor- 
tality of  love. 


^70  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

Canuot  I  create, 
Cannot  I  form,  cannot  I  fashion  forth 
Another  world,  another  universe  1 

Keats. 

The  next  morning  Clarence,  in  his  way  ont  of  town, 
directed  his  carriage  (the  last  and  not  the  least  accept- 
able present  from  Talbot)  to  stop  at  Warner's  door. 
Although  it  was  scarcely  simrise,  the  aged  grandmother 
of  the  artist  was  stirring,  and  opened  the  door  to  the 
early  visitor.  Clarence  passed  her  with  a  brief  salnta- 
tioD,  hurried  up  the  narrow  stairs,  and  found  himself 
in  the  artist's  chamber.  The  windows  were  closed,  and 
the  air  of  the  room  was  confined  and  hot.  A  few  books, 
chiefly  of  history  and  poetry,  stood  in  confused  disorder 
upon  some  shelves  opposite  the  window.  Upon  a  table 
bpneath  them  lay  a  flute,  once  the  cherished  recreation 
of  the  young  painter,  but  now  long  neglected  and  dis- 
used ;  and  placed  exactly  opposite  to  Warner,  so  that 
his  eyes  might  open  upon  his  work,  was  the  higli-prized 
and  already  more  than  half-finished  picture. 

Clarence  bent  over  the  bed;  the  cheek  of  tlie  artist 
rested  upon  his  arm  in  an  attitude  unconsciously  pic- 
turesque; the  other  arm  was  tossed  over  the  coverlid, 
and  Clarence  was  shocked  to  see  how  emaciated  it  had 
become.  But  ever  and  anon  the  lips  of  the  sleeper 
moved  restlessly,  and  words,  low  and  inarticulate,  broke 
out.  Sometimes  he  started  abruptly,  and  a  bright  but 
evanescent  flush  darted  over  his  faded  and  hollow  cheek ; 


THE   DISOWNED.  171 

and  once  the  fingers  of  the  thin  hand,  which  lay  upon 
the  bed,  expanded,  and  suddenlj'-  closed  in  a  firm  and 
almost  painful  grasp;  it  was  then  that,  for  the  first  time, 
the  words  of  the  artist  became  distinct. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  he,  "  I  have  thee,  I  have  thee  at  last. 
Long,  very  long,  thou  hast  burned  up  my  heart  like 
fuel,  and  mocked  me,  and  laughed  at  my  idle  efforts; 
but  now,  now  I  have  thee.  Fame,  honor,  immortality, 
whatever  thoii  art  called,  I  have  thee,  and  thou  canst 
not  escape ;  but  it  is  almost  too  late !  "  And,  as  if  Avrung 
by  some  sudden  pain,  the  sleeper  turned  heavily  round, 
groaned  audibly,  and  awoke. 

"My  friend,"  said  Clarence,  soothingly,  and  taking 
his  hand,  "  I  have  come  to  bid  you  farewell.  I  am  just 
setting  off  for  the  Continent,  but  I  could  not  leave  Eng- 
land without  once  more  seeing  you.  I  have  good  news, 
too,  for  you."  And  Clarence  proceeded  to  repeat  Tal- 
bot's wish  that  Warner  should  bring  the  picture  to  his 
house  on  the  following  Thursday,  that  Sir  Joshua  might 
inspect  it.  He  added  also,  in  terms  the  flattery  of 
Avhich  his  friendship  could  not  resist  exaggerating,  Tal- 
bot's desire  to  become  the  purchaser  of  the  picture. 

"Yes,"  said  the  artist,  as  his  eye  glanced  delightedly 
over  his  labor,  —  "  yes,  I  believe  when  it  is  once  seen 
there  will  be  many  candidates." 

"  No  doubt,"  answered  Clarence ;  "  and  for  that  reason 
you  cannot  blame  Talbot  for  wishing  to  forestall  all 
other  competitors  for  the  prize;  "  and  then,  continuing 
the  encouraging  nature  of  the  conversation,  Clarence 
enlarged  upon  the  new  hopes  of  his  friend,  besought 
him  to  take  time,  to  spare  his  health,  and  not  to  injure 
both  himself  and  his  performance  by  over-anxiety  and 
hurry.  Clarence  concluded  by  retailing  Talbot's  assur- 
ance that  in  all  cases  and  circumstances  he  (Talbot)  con- 


172  THE    DISOWNED. 

sidered  himself  pledged  to  be  Warner's  supporter  and 
friend. 

With  something  of  impatience,  mingled  with  pleas- 
ure, the  painter  listened  to  all  these  details:  nor  was  it 
to  Linden's  zeal,  nor  to  Talbot's  generosity,  but  rather 
to  the  excess  of  his  own  merit,  that  he  secretly  attri- 
buted the  brightening  prospect  afforded  him. 

The  indifference  which  Warner,  though  of  a  disposi- 
tion naturally  kind,  evinced  at  parting  with  a  friend 
who  had  always  taken  so  strong  an  interest  in  his  be- 
half, and  whose  tears  at  that  moment  contrasted  forcil)ly 
enough  with  the  apathetic  coldness  of  liis  own  farewell, 
was  a  remarkable  instance  how  acute  vividness  on  a 
single  point  will  deaden  feeling  on  all  others.  Occu- 
pied solely  and  burningly  with  one  intense  thought, 
which  was  to  him  love,  friendship,  health,  peace, 
wealth,  Warner  could  not  excite  feelings,  languid  and 
exhausted  with  many  and  fiery  conflicts,  to  objects  of 
minor  interest;  and  perhaps  he  inwardly  rejoiced  that 
his  musings  and  his  study  would  henceforth  be  sacred 
even  from  friendship. 

Deeply  affected,  —  for  his  nature  was  exceedingly 
unselfish,  generous,  and  susceptible,  —  Clarence  tore 
himself  away,  placed  in  the  grandmother's  hand  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  sum  he  had  received  from  Tal- 
bot, hurried  into  his  carriage,  and  found  himself  on 
the  high-road  to  fortune,  pleasure,  distinction,  and  the 
Continent. 

But  wliile  Clarence,  despite  of  every  advantage  before 
him,  hastened  to  a  court  of  dissipation  and  pleasure, 
with  feelings  in  which  regretful  affection  for  those  he 
had  left  darkened  his  worhlly  hopes,  and  mingled  witli 
the  sanguine  anticipations  of  youth,  Warner,  poor,  low- 
born, wasted  with   sickness,  destitute  of  friends,  shut 


THE   DISOWNED.  173 

out  "by  his  temperament  from  the  pleasures  of  his  age, 
burned  with  hopes  far  less  alloyed  than  those  of  Clar- 
ence, and  found  in  them,  for  the  sacrifice  of  all  else,  not 
only  a  recompense  but  a  triumph. 

Thursday  came.  Warner  had  made  one  request  of 
Talbot,  which  had  with  difficulty  been  granted:  it  was 
that  he  himself  might,  unseen,  be  the  auditor  of  the 
great  painter's  criticisms,  and  that  Sir  Joshua  should  be 
perfectly  unaware  of  his  presence.  It  had  been  granted 
with  difficulty,  because  Talbot  wished  to  spare  Warner 
the  pain  of  hearing  remarks  which  he  felt  would  be 
likely  to  fall  far  short  of  the  sanguine  self-elation  of  the 
young  artist;  and  it  had  been  granted  because  Talbot 
imagined  that,  even  should  this  be  the  case,  the  pain 
would  be  more  than  counterbalanced  by  the  salutary 
effect  it  might  produce.  Alas!  vanity  calculates  but 
poorly  upon  the  vanity  of  others!  What  a  virtue  we 
should  distil  from  frailty,  what  a  world  of  pain  we 
sho^ild  save  our  brethren,  if  we  would  suffer  our  own 
weakness  to  be  the  measure  of  theirs. 

Thursday  came ;  the  painting  was  placed  by  the  artist's 
own  hand  in  the  most  favorable  light.  A  curtain,  hung 
behind  it,  served  as  a  screen  for  Warner,  who,  retiring 
to  his  hiding-place,  surrendered  his  heart  to  delicious 
forebodings  of  the  critic's  wonder,  and  golden  anticipa- 
tions of  the  future  destiny  of  his  darling  work.  Not  a 
fear  dashed  the  full  and  smooth  cup  of  his  self-enjoy- 
ment. He  had  lain  awake  the  whole  of  the  night,  in 
restless  and  joyous  impatience  for  the  morrow.  At  day- 
break he  had  started  from  his  bed,  he  had  unclosed  his 
shutters,  he  had  hung  over  his  picture  with  a  fondness 
greater  if  possible  than  he  had  ever  known  before ;  like 
a  mother,  he  felt  as  if  his  own  partiality  was  but  a  part 
of  a  universal  tribute ;  and  as  his  aged  relative  turned 


174  THE    DISOWNED. 

her  dim  eyes  to  the  painting,  and  in  lier  innocent  idol- 
atry rather  of  the  artist  than  his  work,  praised  and 
expatiated  and  foretokl,  his  heart  whispered,  "  If  it 
wring  this  worship  from  ignorance,  what  will  he  the 
homage  of  science  1  " 

He  who  first  laid  down  the  now  hackneyed  maxim, 
that  diffidence  is  the  companion  of  genius,  knew  very 
little  of  the  workings  of  the  human  heart.  True,  there 
may  have  been  a  few  such  instances,  and  it  is  probable 
that  in  this  maxim,  as  in  most,  the  exception  made  the 
rule.  But  what  could  ever  reconcile  genius  to  its  suffer- 
ings, its  sacrifices,  its  fevered  inquietudes,  the  intense 
labor  Avhich  can  alone  produce  what  the  shallow  world 
deems  the  giant  ofi'spring  of  a  momentary  inspiration,  — 
what  could  ever  reconcile  it  to  these  but  the  haughty 
and  unquenchable  consciousness  of  internal  power;  the 
hope  which  has  the  fulness  of  certainty  that  in  propor- 
tion to  the  toil  is  the  reward;  the  sanguine  and  impetu- 
ous anticipation  of  glory,  which  bursts  the  boundaries  of 
time  and  space,  and  ranges  immortality  with  a  prophet's 
rapture?  Rob  genius  of  its  confidence,  of  its  lofty  self- 
esteem,  and  you  clip  tlie  wings  of  the  eagle:  you 
domesticate,  it  is  true,  the  wanderer  you  could  not 
hitherto  comprehend,  in  the  narrow  bounds  of  your 
household  affections;  you  abase  and  tame  it  more  to 
the  level  of  your  ordinary  judgments,  but  you  take  from 
it  the  power  to  soar,  the  hardihood  which  was  content 
to  brave  the  thunder-cloud  and  build  its  eyrie  on  the 
rock,  for  the  proud  triumph  of  rising  above  its  kind, 
and  contemplating  with  a  nearer  eye  the  majesty  of 
heaven. 

But  if  something  of  presumption  is  a  part  of  the  very 
essence  of  genius,  in  Warner  it  was  doubly  natural,  for 
he  was  still  in  the  heat  and  flush  of  a  design,  the  defects 


THE   DISOWNED.  175 

of  which  he  had  not  yet  had  the  leisure  to  examine;  and 
his  talents,  self-taught  and  self-modelled,  had  never  re- 
ceived either  the  excitement  of  emulation  or  the  chill  of 
discouragement  from  the  study  of  the  masterpieces  of 
his  art. 

The  painter  had  not  been  long  alone  in  his  conceal- 
ment, before  he  heard  steps;  his  heart  beat  violently, 
the  door  opened,  and  he  saw,  through  a  small  hole 
which  he  had  purposely  made  in  the  curtain,  a  man 
with  a  benevolent  and  prepossessing  countenance,  whom 
he  instantly  recognized  as  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  enter 
the  room,  accompanied  by  Talbot.  They  walked  up 
to  the  picture;  the  painter  examined  it  closely,  and  in 
perfect  silence.  "  Silence,"  thought  Warner,  "  is  the 
best  homage  of  admiration;  "  but  he  trembled  with  im- 
patience to  hear  the  admiration  conlirmed  by  words, — ■ 
those  words  came  too  soon. 

"  It  is  the  work  of  a  clever  man,  certainly,"  said  Sir 
Joshua ;  "  hut "  (terrible  monosyllable)  "  of  one  utterly 
unskilled  in  the  grand  principles  of  his  art:  look  here, 
and  here,  and  here,  for  instance;  "  and  the  critic,  per- 
fectly imconscious  of  the  torture  he  inflicted,  proceeded 
to  point  out  the  errors  of  the  work.  Oh!  the  agony,  the 
Avithering  agony  of  that  moment  to  the  ambitious  artist! 
In  vain  he  endeavored  to  bear  up  against  the  judg- 
ment,—  in  vain  he  endeavored  to  persuade  himself  that 
it  was  the  voice  of  envy  which  in  those  cold,  measured, 
defininr)  accents,  fell  like  drops  of  poison  upon  his 
heart.  He  felt  at  once,  and  as  if  by  a  magical  inspira- 
tion, the  truth  of  the  verdict;  the  scales  of  self-delusion 
fell  from  his  eyes;  by  a  hideous  mockery,  a  kind  of 
terrible  pantomime,  his  goddess  seemed  at  a  word,  a 
breath,  transformed  into  a  monster:  life,  which  had 
been  so  lately  concentrated  into  a  single  hope,  seemed 


17G  THE   DISOWNED. 

now,  at  once  and  forever,  cramped,  curdled,  blistered 
into  a  single  disappointment. 

"  But,"  said  Talbot,  who  had  in  vain  attempted  to 
arrest  the  criticisms  of  the  painter  (who,  very  deaf  at  all 
times,  was,  at  that  time  in  particular,  engrossed  by  the 
self-satisfaction  always  enjoyed  by  one  expatiating  on 
his  favorite  topic), — "but,"  said  Talbot,  in  a  louder 
voice,  "you  own  there  is  great  genius  in  the  design?  " 

"  Certainly,  there  is  genius,"  replied  Sir  Joshua,  in 
a  tone  of  calm  and  complacent  good-nature ;  "  but  what 
is  genius  without  culture  1  You  say  the  artist  is  young, 
very  young;  let  him  take  time,  —  I  do  not  say  let  him 
attempt  a  humbler  walk, — let  him  persevere  in  the 
lofty  one  he  has  chosen,  but  let  him  first  retrace  every 
step  he  has  taken;  let  him  devote  days,  months,  years 
to  the  most  diligent  study  of  the  immortal  masters  of 
the  divine  art,  before  he  attempts  (to  exhibit,  at  least) 
another  historical  picture.  He  has  mistaken  altogether 
the  nature  of  invention:  a  fine  invention  is  nothing 
more  than  a  fine  deviation  from  or  enlargement  on  a 
fine  model;  imitation,  if  noble  and  general,  insures  the 
best  hope  of  originality.  Above  all,  let  your  young 
friend,  if  he  can  afford  it,  visit  Italy." 

"  He  shall  afford  it,"  said  Talbot,  kindly,  "  for  he 
shall  have  whatever  advantages  I  can  procure  him;  but 
you  see  the  picture  is  only  half  completed,  —  he  could 
alter  it!" 

"  He  had  better  burn  it !  "  replied  the  painter,  with 
a  gentle  smile. 

And  Talbot,  in  benevolent  despair,  hurried  his  visitor 
out  of  the  room.  He  soon  returned  to  seek  and  console 
the  artist,  but  the  artist  was  gone;  the  despised,  the 
fatal  picture,  the  blessing  and  curse  of  so  many  anxious 
and  wasted  hours,  had  vanished  also  with  its  creator. 


THE   DISOWNED.  177 


CHAPTEE   XXIV. 

What  is  this  soul  then  1     "Whence 
Came  it  ?  —  It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  I 
Have  no  self-passion  or  identity  ! 
Some  fearful  end  must  be  — 

There  never  lived  a  mortal  man,  who  bent 
His  appetite  be^'ond  his  natural  sphere, 
But  starved  and  died. 

Keats's  Endymion. 

Ox  entering  his  home,  Warner  pushed  aside,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  with  disrespect,  his  aged  and  kindly 
relation,  who,  as  if  in  mockery  of  the  unfortunate  artist, 
stood  prepared  to  welcome  and  congratulate  his  return. 
Bearing  his  picture  in  his  arms,  he  rushed  upstairs, 
hurried  into  his  room,  and  locked  the  door.  Hastily 
he  tore  aside  the  cloth  which  had  been  drawn  over  the 
picture;  hastily  and  tremblingly  he  placed  it  upon  the 
frame  accustomed  to  support  it,  and  then,  with  a  long, 
long,  eager,  searching,  scrutinizing  glance,  he  survej^ed 
the  once  beloved  mistress  of  his  worship.  Presumption, 
vanity,  exaggerated  self-esteem,  are,  in  their  punish- 
ment, supposed  to  excite  ludicrous,  not  sympathetic, 
emotion ;  but  there  is  an  excess  of  feeling,  produced  by 
whatever  cause  it  may  be,  into  which  in  spite  of  our- 
selves we  are  forced  to  enter.  Even  fear,  the  most 
contemptible  of  the  passions,  becomes  tragic  the  mo- 
ment it  becomes  an  agony. 

"Well,  well!"  said  Warner  at  last,  speaking   very 
slowly,  "it  is  over;  it  was  a  pleasant  dream,  —  but  it  is 

VOL.  I.  — 12 


178  THE   DISOWNED. 

over:  I  ought  to  be  thankful  for  the  lesson."  Then 
suddenly  changing  his  mood  and  tone  he  repeated, 
"Thankful!  for  what?  that  I  am  a  wretch, — a  wretch 
more  utterly  hopeless  and  miserable  and  abandoned 
than  a  man  who  freights  with  all  his  wealth,  his  chil- 
dren, his  wife,  the  hoarded  treasures  and  blessings  of 
an  existence,  one  ship,  one  frail,  worthless  ship,  and 
standing  himself  on  the  shore,  sees  it  suddenly  go  down! 
Oh,  was  I  not  a  fool,  a  right  noble  fool,  a  vain  fool, 
an  arrogant  fool,  a  very  essence  and  concentration  of  all 
things  tliat  make  a  fool,  to  believe  such  delicious  mar- 
vels of  myself!  What,  man!"  here  his  eye  saw  in 
the  opposite  glass  his  features,  livid  and  haggard  with 
disease,  and  the  exhausting  feelings  which  preyed  within 
him, — "what,  man!  would  nothing  serve  thee  but  to 
be  a  genius,  —  thee,  whom  nature  stamped  with  her 
curse!  Dwarf-like  and  distorted,  mean  in  stature  and 
in  lineament,  thou  wert  indeed  a  glorious  being  to  per- 
petuate grace  and  beauty,  the  majesties  and  dreams  of 
art!  Fame  for  thee,  indeed, — ha,  ha!  Glory,  —  ha, 
ha!  a  place  with  Titian,  Correggio,  Raphael,  —  ha,  ha, 
ha!  0  thrice  modest,  thrice  reasonable  fool!  But  this 
vile  daub;  this  disfigurement  of  canvas;  this  loathed 
and  wretched  monument  of  disgrace;  this  notable  can- 
didate for  —  ha,  ha  —  immortality — this  I  have,  at 
least,  in  my  power."  And  seizing  the  picture  he 
dashed  it  to  the  ground,  and  trampled  it  with  his  feet 
upon  the  dusty  boards,  till  the  moist  colors  presented 
nothing  but  one  confused  and  dingy  stain. 

This  sight  seemed  to  recall  him  for  a  moment.  He 
paused,  lifted  up  the  picture  once  more,  and  placed  it 
on  the  table.  "  But,"  he  muttered,  "  might  not  this 
critic  be  envious?  am  I  sure  that  he  judged  rightly, — 
fairly?     The  greatest  masters  have  looked  askant  and 


THE   DISOWNED.  179 

jealous  at  their  pupil's  works.  And  then,  how  slow, 
how  cold,  how  damned  cold,  how  indifferently  he  spoke; 
why,  the  very  art  should  have  warmed  him  more. 
Could  he  have —  No,  no,  no;  it  ivas  true,  it  was!  I 
felt  the  conviction  thrill  through  me  like  a  searing  iron. 
Burn  it,  —  did  he  say,  ay,  —  burn  it;  it  shall  be  done 
this  instant." 

And  hastening  to  the  door,  he  undid  the  bolt.  He 
staggered  back  as  he  beheld  his  old  and  nearest  surviv- 
ing relative,  the  mother  of  his  father,  seated  upon  the 
ground  beside  the  door,  terrihed  by  the  exclamations 
she  did  not  dare  to  interrupt.  She  rose  slowly,  and 
with  difficulty,  as  she  saw  him;  and  throwing  around 
him  the  withered  arms  which  had  nursed  his  infancy, 
exclaimed,  "  My  child!  my  poor,  poor  child!  what  has 
come  to  you  of  late  1  You,  who  were  so  gentle,  so  mild, 
so  quiet, — you  are  no  longer  the  same;  and  oh,  my 
son,  how  ill  you  look!  Your  father  looked  so  just  before 
he  died!" 

"111!  "  said  he,  with  a  sort  of  fearful  gayety,  —  "  ill; 
no,  I  never  was  so  well;  I  have  been  in  a  dream  till 
now,  — but  I  have  woke  at  last.  Why,  it  is  true  that 
I  have  been  silent  and  shy,  but  I  will  be  so  no  more. 
I  will  laugh,  and  talk,  and  walk,  and  make  love,  and 
drink  wine,  and  be  all  that  other  men  are.  Oh, 
we  will  be  so  merry.  But  stay  here,  while  I  fetch  a 
light." 

«  A  light,  my  child,  for  Avhat?  " 

"  For  a  funeral !  "  shouted  Warner,  and  rushing  past 
her  he  descended  the  stairs,  and  returned  almost  in  an 
instant  with  a  light. 

Alarmed  and  terrified,  the  poor  old  woman  had  re- 
mained motionless,  and  weeping  violently.  Her  tears 
Warner  did  not  seem  to  notice;  he  pushed  her  gently 


180  THE    DISOWNED. 

into   the   room,   and   began   deliberately,   and   without 
uttering  a  syllable,  to  cut  the  picture  into  shreds. 

"What  are  you  about,  ray  child?"  cried  the  old 
■woman;  "you  are  mad,  —  it  is  your  beautiful  picture 
that  you  are  destroying." 

Warner  did  not  reply,  but,  going  to  the  heartli,  piled 
together,  with  nice  and  scrupulous  care,  several  pieces 
of  paper,  and  stick,  and  matches,  into  a  sort  of  pyre; 
then  placing  the  shreds  of  the  picture  upon  it,  he  applied 
the  light,  and  the  whole  was  instantly  in  a  blaze. 

"  Look,  look!  "  cried  he,  in  an  hysterical  tone,  "how 
it  burns,  and  crackles,  and  blazes!  What  master  ever 
equalled  it  now  ?  —  no  fault  now  in  those  colors,  —  no 
false  tints  in  that  light  and  shade!  See  how  that  flame 
darts  up  and  soars!  —  that  flame  is  my  spirit!  Look,  — • 
is  it  not  restless  1  —  does  it  not  aspire  bravely  1  —  why, 
all  its  brother  flames  are  grovellers  to  it!  —  and  now,  — 
why  don't  you  look?  —  it  falters,  fades,  droops,  and — • 
ha,  ha,  ha!  —  poor  idler,  the  fuel  is  consumed,  and  —  it 
is  darkness!  " 

As  Warner  uttered  these  words  his  eyes  reeled ;  the 
room  swam  before  him;  the  excitement  of  his  feeble 
frame  had  reached  its  highest  pitch;  the  disease  of  many 
weeks  had  attained  its  crisis;  and  tottering  back  a  few 
paces  he  fell  upon  the  floor,  the  victim  of  a  delirious 
and  raging  fever. 

But  it  was  not  thus  that  the  young  artist  was  to  die. 
He  was  reserved  for  a  death  that,  like  his  real  nature, 
had  in  it  more  of  gentleness  and  poetry.  He  recovered, 
by  slow  degrees,  and  his  mind,  almost  in  spite  of  him- 
self, returned  to  that  profession  from  Avhich  it  was  im- 
possible to  divert  the  thoughts  and  musings  of  many 
years.  Not  that  he  resimied  the  pencil  and  the  easel; 
on  the  contrary,  he  could  not  endure  them  in  his  sight; 


THE    DISOWNED.  181 

they  appeared,  to  a  mind  festered  and  sore ,  like  a  memo- 
rial and  monument  of  shame.  But  he  nursed  within  him 
a  strong  and  ardent  desire  to  become  a  pilgrim  to  that 
beautiful  land  of  which  he  had  so  often  dreamed,  and 
which  the  innocent  destroyer  of  his  peace  had  pointed 
out  as  the  theatre  of  inspiration,  and  the  nursery  of 
future  fame. 

The  physicians  who,  at  Talbot's  instigation,  attended 
him,  looked  at  his  hectic  cheek  and  consumptive  frame, 
and  readily  flattered  his  desire;  and  Talbot,  no  less  in- 
terested in  Warner's  behalf  on  his  own  account,  than 
bound  by  his  promise  to  Clarence,  generously  extended 
to  the  artist  that  bounty  which  is  the  most  precious 
prerogative  of  the  rich.  Notwithstanding  her  extreme 
age,  his  grandmother  insisted  upon  attending  him:  there 
is  in  the  heart  of  woman  so  deep  a  well  of  love  that  no 
age  can  freeze  it.  They  made  the  voyage:  they  reached 
the  shore  of  the  myrtle  and  the  vine,  and  entered  the 
imperial  city.  The  air  of  Eome  seemed  at  first  to 
operate  favorably  upon  the  health  of  the  English  artist. 
His  strength  appeared  to  increase,  his  spirit  to  expand; 
and  though  he  had  relapsed  into  more  than  his  original 
silence  and  reserve,  he  resumed,  with  apparent  energy, 
the  labors  of  the  easel:  so  that  they  who  looked  no 
deeper  than  the  surface  might  have  imagined  the  scar 
healed,  and  the  real  foundation  of  future  excellence 
begun. 

But  while  "Warner  most  humbled  himself  before  the 
gods  of  the  pictured  world;  while  the  true  principles  of 
the  mighty  art  opened  in  their  fullest  glory  on  his  soul ; 
precisely  at  this  very  moment  shame  and  despondency 
were  most  bitter  at  his  heart;  and  while  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  painter  kindled,  the  ambition  of  the  man  de- 
spaired.     But  still  he   went  on,  transfusing  into  his 


182  THE   DISOWNED. 

canvas  the  grandeur  and  simplicity  of  the  Italian  school ; 
still,  though  he  felt  palpably  within  him  the  creeping 
advance  of  the  deadliest  and  surest  enemy  to  fame,  he 
pursued,  with  an  unwearied  ardor,  the  mechanical  com- 
pletion of  his  task;  still,  the  morning  found  him  bend- 
ing before  the  easel,  and  the  night  brought  to  his 
solitary  couch  meditation  rather  than  sleep.  The  tire, 
the  irritability  which  he  had  evinced  before  his  illness 
had  vanished,  and  the  original  sweetness  of  his  temper 
had  returned ;  he  uttered  no  complaint,  he  dwelt  upon 
no  anticipation  of  success,  —  hope  and  regret  seemed 
equally  dead  within  him;  and  it  was  only  when  he 
caught  the  fond,  glad  eyes  of  his  aged  attendant  that  his 
own  filled  with  tears,  or  that  the  serenity  of  his  brow 
darkened  into  sadness. 

This  went  on  for  some  months,  till  one  evening  they 
found  the  painter  by  his  window,  seated  opposite  to  an 
unfinished  picture.  The  pencil  was  still  in  his  hand ;  the 
quiet  of  settled  thought  was  still  upon  his  countenance ; 
the  soft  breeze  of  a  southern  twilight  waved  the  hair 
livingly  from  his  forehead ;  the  earliest  star  of  a  south- 
ern sky  lent  to  his  cheek  something  of  that  subdued 
lustre  which,  when  touched  by  enthusiasm,  it  had  been 
accustomed  to  wear.  But  these  were  only  the  mockeries 
of  life:  life  itself  was  no  more!  He  had  died,  recon- 
ciled, perhaps,  to  the  loss  of  fame,  —  in  discovering  that 
art  is  to  be  loved  for  itself,  and  not  for  the  rewards  it 
may  bestow  upon  the  artist. 

There  are  two  tombs  close  to  each  other  in  the 
stranger's  burial-place  at  Rome:  they  cover  those  for 
whom  life,  iinequally  long,  terminated  in  the  same 
month.  The  one  is  of  a  woman,  bowed  with  the 
burden  of  many  years ;  the  other  darkens  over  the  dust 
of  the  young  artist. 


THE   DISOWNED.  183 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Think  upon  my  grief, 
And  on  tlie  justice  of  my  flying  hence, 
To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match. 

Shakespeare. 

"But  are  you  quite  sure,"  said  General  St.  Leger, — 
"  are  you  quite  sure  that  this  girl  still  permits  Mor- 
dauiit's  addresses?" 

"Sure!"  cried  Miss  Diana  St.  Leger, —  "  sure,  Gen- 
eral !  I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes.  They  were  standing 
together  in  the  copse,  when  I,  who  had  long  had  my 
suspicions,  crept  up,  and  saw  them;  and  Mr.  Mordaunt 
held  her  hand,  and  kissed  it  every  moment.  Shocking 
and  indecorous!  " 

"I  hate  that  man!  — as  proud  as  Lucifer,"  growled 
the  general.     "  Shall  we  lock  her  up,  or  starve  her?  " 

"  No,  General,  something  better  than  that." 

«  What,  my  love  1     Flog  her !  " 

"  She  's  too  old  for  that,  brother;  we  '11  marry  her." 

"  Marry  her!  " 

*'Yes;  to  Mr.  Glumford, — you  know  that  he  has 
asked  her  several  times." 

"  But  she  cannot  bear  him." 

"  We  '11  make  her  bear  him.  General  St.  Leger." 

"  But  if  she  marries,  I  shall  have  nobody  to  nurse  me 
when  I  have  the  gout." 

"Yes,  brother:  I  know  of  a  nice  little  girl,  Martha 
Eichardson,  your  second  cousin's  youngest  daughter; 
you  know  he  has  fourteen  children,  and  you  may  have 
them  all,  one  after  another,  if  you  like. " 


184  THE   DISOWNED. 

"Very  truo,  Diana,  —  let  the  jaile  marry  IMr.  Glum- 
ford." 

"  She  sliall,"  said  the  sister;  "and  I  '11  go  about  it 
this  very  moment;  meantime  I'll  take  care  that  she 
does  not  see  her  lover  any  more." 

About  three  weeks  after  this  conversation,  Mordaunt, 
Avlio  had  in  vain  endeavored  to  see  Isabel,  who  had  not 
even  heard  from  her,  whose  letters  had  been  returned  to 
him  unopened,  and  who,  consequently,  was  in  despair, 
received  the  following  note :  — 

This  is  the  first  tune  I  have  been  able  to  write  to  you,  at 
least  to  get  my  letter  conveyed  :  it  is  a  strange  messenger  that 
I  have  employed,  but  I  happened  formerly  to  make  his  ac- 
quaintance, and  accidentally  seeing  him  to-day,  the  extremity 
of  the  case  induced  me  to  give  him  a  counnission  which  I  could 
trust  to  no  one  else.  Algernon,  are  not  the  above  sentences 
written  with  admirable  calnniess  ?  are  they  not  very  explana- 
tory, very  consistent,  very  cool  ?  and  yet  do  you  know  that  I 
firmly  believe  I  am  going  mad.  My  brain  turns  round  and 
round,  and  my  hand  burns  so  that  I  almost  think  that,  like 
our  old  nurse's  stories  of  the  fiend,  it  will  scorch  the  paper  as 
I  write.  And  I  see  strange  faces  in  my  sleep  and  in  my  wak- 
ing, all  mocking  at  me,  and  they  torture  and  haunt  me  ;  and 
when  I  look  at  those  faces,  I  see  no  human  relenting,  no  ! 
though  I  weep  and  throw  myself  on  my  knees,  and  implore 
them  to  save  me.  Algernon,  my  only  hope  is  in  you.  You 
know  that  I  have  always  hitherto  refused  to  ruin  you  ;  and 
even  now,  though  I  implore  you  to  deliver  me,  I  will  not  be 
so  selfish  as  —  tis  —  I  know  not  what  I  write,  but  if  I  cannot 
be  your  wife,  —  I  will  not  be  his  I  No  !  if  they  drag  me  to 
church,  it  shall  be  to  my  grave,  not  my  bridal. 

Isabel  St.  Leger. 

When  Mordaunt  had  read  this  letter,  which,  in  spito 
of  its  incoherence,  his  fears  readily  explained,  he  rose 
hastily;  his  eye  rested  upon  a  sober-looking  man,  clad 


THE    DISOWNED.  185 

in   brown.       The    proud    love   no    spectators   to   tlieir 
emotions. 

"  Who  are  you,  sir?  "  said  Algernon,  quickly. 

"  Morris  Brown,"  replied  the  stranger,  coolly  and 
civilly,  "Brought  that  letter  to  you,  sir;  shall  he 
very  happy  to  serve  you  with  anything  else;  just  fitted 
out  a  young  gentleman  as  ambassador,  a  nephew  to  Mrs. 
Minden,  —  very  old  friend  of  mine.  Beautiful  slabs 
you  have  here,  sir,  but  they  want  a  few  nick-nacks; 
shall  be  most  happy  to  supply  you ;  got  a  lovely  little 
ape,  sir,  stuffed  by  the  late  Lady  Waddilove;  it  would 
look  charming  with  this  old-fashioned  carving;  give  the 
room  quite  the  air  of  a  museum!" 

"  And  so,"  said  Mordaunt,  for  whose  ear  the  elo- 
quence of  Mr.  Brown  contained  only  one  sentence, — 
"  and  so  you  brought  this  note,  and  will  take  back  my 
answer  1  " 

"Yes,  sir;  anything  to  keep  up  family  connections: 
I  know  a  Lady  Morden  very  well,  —  very  well,  indeed, 
sir:  a  relation  of  yours,  I  presume,  by  the  similarity  of 
the  name;  made  her  many  valuable  presents;  shall  be 
most  happy  to  do  the  same  to  you,  when  you  are  mar- 
ried, sir.  You  will  refurnish  the  house,  I  suppose? 
Let  me  see:  fine  proportions  to  this  room,  sir,  —  about 
thirty -six  feet  by  twenty-eight;  I  '11  do  the  thing 
twenty  per  cent  cheaper  than  the  trade;  and  touching 
the  lovely  little  —  " 

"Here,"  interrupted  Mordaunt,  "you  Avill  take  back 
this  note,  and  be  sure  that  Miss  Isabel  St.  Leger  has  it 
as  soon  as  possible;  oblige  me  by  accepting  this  trifle,  — 
a  trifle  indeed  compared  with  my  gratitude  if  this  note 
reaches  its  destination  safely." 

"I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  looking  with  surprise 
at  the  gift,  which  he  held  with  no  unwilling  hand,  — 


186  THE   DTSOAVNED. 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,  that  you  are  very  generous,  and  strongly 
remind  me  of  your  relation,  Lady  Morden;  and  if  you 
would  like  the  lovely  little  ape  as  a  present,  —  I  mean 
really  a  present,  —  you  shall  liave  it,  Mr.  Mordaunt. " 

But  Mr.  Mordaunt  had  left  the  room,  and  the  soher 
Morris,  looking  round,  and  cooling  in  his  generosity, 
said  to  himself,  "  It  is  well  he  did  not  hear  me,  however; 
but  I  hope  he  will  marry  the  nice  young  lady,  for  I  love 
doing  a  kindness.  This  house  m;ist  he  refurnished,  — 
no  lady  will  like  these  old-fashioned  chairs. " 


THE   DISOWNED.  187 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Squire  and  fool  are  the  same  thing  here.  — Farquhar. 

In  such  a  night 
Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew, 
And,  with  an  uuthrift  love,  did  run  from  Venice. 

Shakespeare. 

The  persecutions  which  Isahel  had  undergone  had  in- 
deed preyed  upon  her  reason  as  well  as  her  health ;  and 
in  her  brief  intervals  of  respite  from  the  rage  of  the 
uncle,  the  insults  of  the  aunt,  and  worse  than  all,  the 
addresses  of  the  intended  bridegroom,  her  mind,  shocked 
and  unhinged,  reverted  with  such  intensity  to  the  suf- 
ferings she  endured  as  to  give  her  musings  the  character 
of  insanity.  It  was  in  one  of  these  moments  that  she 
had  written  to  Mordaunt;  and  had  the  contest  con- 
tinued much  longer,  the  reason  of  the  unfortunate  and 
persecuted  girl  would  have  totally  deserted  her. 

She  was  a  person  of  acute,  and  even  poignant  sensi- 
bilities, and  these  the  imperfect  nature  of  her  education 
had  but  little  served  to  guide  or  to  correct;  but  as  her 
habits  were  pure  and  good,  the  impulses  which  spring 
from  habit  were  also  sinless  and  exalted,  and  if  they 
erred,  "  they  leaned  on  virtue's  side,"  and  partook  rather 
of  a  romantic  and  excessive  generosity  than  of  the  weak- 
ness of  womanhood  or  the  selfishness  of  passion.  All 
the  misery  and  debasement  of  her  equivocal  and  de- 
pendent situation  had  not  been  able  to  drive  her  into 
compliance  with  Mordaunt' s  passionate  and  urgent 
prayers;  and  her  heart  was  proof  even  to  the  eloquence 


188  THE   DISOWNED. 

of  love,  when  that  eloquence  pointed  towards  the  worldly 
injury  and  depreciation  of  her  lover;  but  this  new  per- 
secution was  utterly  unforeseen  in  its  nature  and  intol- 
erable from  its  cause.  To  marry  another;  to  be  torn 
forever  from  one  in  whom  her  whole  heart  was  wrapped ; 
to  be  forced  not  only  to  forego  his  love,  but  to  feel  that 
the  very  thought  of  him  was  a  crime,  —  all  this  backed 
by  the  vehement  and  galling  insults  of  her  relations,  and 
the  sullen  and  unmoved  meanness  of  her  intended  bride- 
groom, who  answered  her  candor  and  confession  with  a 
stubborn  indifference  and  renewed  overtures,  made  a 
load  of  evil  which  could  neither  be  borne  with  resigna- 
tion nor  contemplated  with  patience. 

She  was  sitting,  after  she  had  sent  her  letter,  with  her 
two  relations,  for  they  seldom  trusted  her  out  of  their 
sight,  wlien  Mr.  Glumford  was  announced.  Now,  Mr. 
George  Glumford  was  a  country  gentleman  of  what 
might  be  termed  a  third-rate  family  in  the  country :  he 
possessed  about  twelve  hundred  a  year,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  odd  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  which,  how- 
ever, did  not  meet  with  such  contempt  in  his  memory 
or  estimation;  was  of  a  race  which  could  date  as  far 
back  as  Charles  II. ;  had  been  educated  at  a  country 
school  with  sixty  others,  chiefly  inferior  to  himself  in 
rank;  and  had  received  the  last  finisli  at  a  very  small 
hall  at  Oxford.  In  addition  to  these  advantages,  he 
had  been  indebted  to  nature  for  a  person  five  feet  eight 
inches  high,  and  stout  in  proportion;  for  hair  very 
short,  very  straight,  and  of  a  red  hue,  which  even 
through  powder  cast  out  a  mellow  glow;  for  an  obsti- 
nate dogged  sort  of  nose,  beginning  in  snub,  and  ending 
in  bottle;  for  cold,  small  gray  eyes,  a  very  small  mouth, 
pinched  up  and  avaricious  ;  and  very  large,  very  freckled, 
yet  rather  white  hands,  the  nails  of  which  were  punc- 


THE  DISOWNED.  189 

tiliously  cut  into  a  point  every  other  day  with  a  pair  of 
scissors  which  Mr.  Glumford  often  boasted  had  been  in 
his  possession  since  his  eighth  year,  —  namely,  for  about 
thirty-two  legitimate  revolutions  of  the  sun. 

He  was  one  of  those  persons  who  are  equally  close  and 
adventurous;  who  love  the  eclat  of  a  little  speculation, 
but  take  exceeding  good  care  that  it  should  be,  in  their 
own  graceful  phrase ,  "  on  the  safe  side  of  the  hedge. " 
In  pursuance  of  this  characteristic  of  mind,  he  had  re- 
solved to  fall  in  love  with  Miss  Isabel  St.  Leger;  for 
she  being  very  dependent,  he  could  boast  to  her  of  his 
disinterestedness,  and  hope  that  she  would  be  economi- 
cal through  a  principle  of  gratitude;  and  being  the 
nearest  relation  to  the  opulent  General  St.  Leger,  and 
his  unmarried  sister,  there  seemed  to  be  every  rational 
probability  of  her  inheriting  the  bulk  of  their  for- 
tunes. Upon  these  hints  of  prudence  spake  Mr.  George 
Glumford. 

Now,  when  Isabel,  partly  in  her  ingenuous  frankness, 
partly  from  the  passionate  promptings  of  her  despair, 
revealed  to  him  her  attachment  to  another,  and  her  reso- 
lution never,  with  her  own  consent,  to  become  his,  it 
seemed  to  the  slow  but  not  uncalculating  mind  of  Mr. 
Glumford  not  by  any  means  desirable  that  he  should 
forego  his  present  intentions,  but  by  all  means  desir- 
able that  he  should  make  this  reluctance  of  Isabel's 
an  excuse  for  sounding  the  intentions  and  increasing 
the  posthumous  liberality  of  the  East  Indian  and  his 
sister. 

"  The  girl  is  of  my  nearest  blood,"  said  the  major- 
general,  "  and  if  I  don't  leave  my  fortune  to  her,  who 
the  devil  should  I  leave  it  to,  sir;  "  and  so  saying,  the 
speaker,  who  was  in  a  fell  paroxysm  of  the  gout,  looked 
so  fiercely  at  the  hinting  wooer,  that  Mr.  George  Glum- 


190  THE   DISOWNED. 

ford,  who  was  no  Achilles,  was  somewhat   frightened, 
and  thought  it  expedient  to  hint  no  more. 

"My  brother,"  said  Miss  Diana,  "is  so  odd;  but  he 
is  the  most  generous  of  men :  besides,  the  girl  has  claims 
upon  him." 

Upon  these  speeches,  Mr.  Glumford  thought  himself 
secure,  and  inly  resolving  to  punish  the  fool  for  her 
sulkiness  and  bad  taste  as  soon  as  he  lawfully  could, 
he  continued  his  daily  visits,  and  told  his  sporting 
acquaintance  that  his   time  was  coming. 

Revenons  a  nos  rtioutons,  forgive  this  preliminary 
detail,  and  let  us  return  to  Mr.  Glumford  himself,  whom 
we  left  at  the  door,  pulling  and  fumbling  at  the  glove 
which  covered  his  right  hand,  in  order  to  present  the 
naked  palm  to  Miss  Diana  St.  Leger.  After  this  act 
was  performed,  he  approached  Isabel,  and,  drawing  his 
chair  near  to  her,  proceeded  to  converse  with  her  as  the 
Ogre  did  with  Puss  in  Boots, — namely,  "as  civilly  as 
an  Ogre  could  do." 

This  penance  had  not  proceeded  far  before  the  door 
was  again  opened,  and  Mr.  Morris  Brown  presented 
himself  to  the  conclave. 

"  Your  servant,  General ;  your  servant.  Madam.  I 
took  the  liberty  of  coming  back  again.  Madam,  because 
I  forgot  to  show  you  some  very  fine  silks,  the  most 
extraordinary  bargain  in  the  world ,  —  quite  presents ; 
and  I  have  a  Sevres  bowl  here,  a  superb  article,  from 
the  cabinet  of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove." 

Xow  Mr.  Brown  was  a  very  old  acquaintance  of  Miss 
Diana  St.  Leger;  for  there  is  a  certain  class  of  old  maids 
with  whom  our  fair  readers  are  no  doubt  acquainted, 
who  join  to  a  great  love  of  expense,  a  great  love  of  bar- 
gains, and  who  never  purchase  at  the  regular  place  if 
they  can  find  any  irregular  vender.       They  are   great 


THE   DISOWNED.  191 

friends  of  Jews  and  itinerants,  hand-in-glove  -with 
smugglers,  Ladies  Bountiful  to  pedlers,  are  diligent 
readers  of  puflfs  and  advertisements,  and  eternal  haunt- 
ers of  sales  and  auctions.  Of  this  class  was  j\Iiss  Diana 
a  most  prominent  individual;  judge,  then,  how  accept- 
able to  her  was  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Brown.  That 
indefatigable  merchant  of  miscellanies  had,  indeed,  at 
a  time  when  brokers  were  perhaps  rather  more  rare  and 
respectable  than  now,  a  numerous  country  acquaintance, 
and  thrice  a  year  he  performed  a  sort  of  circuit  to  all  his 
customers  and  connections;  hence  his  visit  to  St.  Leger 
House,  and  hence  Isabel's  opportunity  of  conveying  her 
epistle. 

"Pray,"  said  Mr.  Glumford,  who  had  heard  much  of 
Mr.  Brown's  "presents"  from  Miss  Diana, — "pray 
don't  you  furnish  rooms,  and  things  of  that  sort?" 

"Certainly,  sir,  certainly,  in  the  best  manner  pos- 
sible." 

"Oh!  very  well,  I  shall  want  some  rooms  furnished 
soon,  —  a  bedroom,  and  a  dressing-room;  and  things  of 
that  sort,  you  know.  And  so,  perhaps  you  may  have 
something  in  your  box  that  will  suit  me,  gloves  or 
handkerchiefs,  or  shirts,  or  things  of  that  sort." 

"  Yes,  sir;  everything,  — I  sell  everything,"  said  Mr. 
Brown,  opening  his  box.  "  I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Isabel, 
I  have  dropped  my  handkerchief  b)'-  j^our  chair;  allow 
me  to  stoop,"  and  Mr.  Brown,  stooping  under  the  table, 
managed  to  effect  his  purpose;  unseen  by  the  rest,  a 
note  was  slipped  into  Isabel's  hand,  and  under  pre- 
tence of  stooping  too,  she  managed  to  secure  the  treas- 
ure. Love  need  well  be  honest  if,  even  when  it  is  most 
true,  it  leads  us  into  so  much  that  is  false! 

Mr.  Brown's  box  was  now  unfolded  before  the  eyes 
of  the  crafty  Mr.  Glumford,  who,  having  selected  three 


192  THE   DISOWNED. 

pair  of  gloves,  offered  the  exact  half  of  the  sum 
demanded. 

Mr.  Brown  lifted  up  his  hands  and  eyes. 

"You  see,"  said  the  imperturbable  Glumford,  "that 
if  you  let  me  have  them  for  that,  and  they  last  me  well, 
and  don't  come  unsewn,  and  stand  cleaning,  you  '11  have 
my  custom  in  furnishing  the  house,  and  rooms,  and  — 
things  of  that  sort." 

Struck  with  the  grandeur  of  this  opening,  Mr.  Brown 
yielded,  and  the  gloves  were  bought. 

"  The  fool!  "  thought  the  noble  George,  laughing  in 
his  sleeve,  — "  as  if  I  sliould  ever  furnish  the  house  from 
his  box!" 

Strange  that  some  men  should  be  proud  of  being 
mean. 

The  moment  Isabel  escaped  to  dress  for  dinner,  she 
opened  her  lover's  note.      It  was  as  follows:  — 

Be  in  the  room,  your  retreat,  at  nine  this  evening.  Let  the 
window  be  left  iniclosed.  Precisely  at  that  hour  I  will  be 
with  you.  I  shall  have  everything  in  readiness  for  your  flight. 
Be  sure,  dearest  Isabel,  that  nothing  prevents  your  meeting  me 
there,  even  if  all  your  house  follow  or  attend  you.  I  will  bear 
you  from  all.  Oh,  Isabel!  in  spite  of  the  mystery  and  wretch- 
edness of  your  letter,  I  feel  too  happy,  too  blessed  at  the  thought 
that  our  fates  will  be  at  length  united,  and  that  the  union  is  at 
hand.     Remember,  nine. 

A.  M. 

Love  is  a  feeling  Avhich  has  so  little  to  do  with  the 
world,  a  passion  so  little  regulated  by  the  known  laws 
of  our  more  steady  and  settled  emotions,  that  the  thoughts 
which  it  produces  are  always  more  or  less  connected  with 
exaggeration  and  romance.  To  the  secret  spirit  of  en- 
terprise which,  however  chilled  by  his  pursuits  and 
habits,  still  burned  within  Mordaunt's  breast,  there  was 


THE  DISOWNED.  193 

a  wild  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  bearing  off  his  mistress 
and  his  bride  from  the  very  home  and  hold  of  her  false 
friends  and  real  foes ;  while  in  the  contradictions  of  the 
same  passion,  Isabel,  so  far  from  exulting  at  her  ap- 
proaching escape,  trembled  at  her  danger,  and  blushed 
for  her  temerity ;  and  the  fear  and  the  modesty  of  woman 
almost  triumphed  over  her  brief  energy  and  fluctuating 
resolve. 


VOL.  I.  —  13 


194  THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

^e  haste,  —  tlie  chosen  and  the  lovely  bringing ; 

Love  still  goes  with  her  from  her  place  of  birth ! 
Deep,  silent  joy,  within  her  soul  is  springing. 

Though  in  her  glance  the  light  no  more  is  mirth. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

"Damn  it!  "  said  the  general. 

"  The  vile  creature !  "  cried  Miss  Diana. 

"  I  don't  understand  tilings  of  that  sort,"  ejaculated 
the  bewildered  Mr.  Glumford. 

"  She  has  certainly  gone,"  said  the  valiant  general. 

"  Certainly !  "  grunted  Miss  Diana. 

"  Gone !  "  echoed  the  bridegroom  not  to  be. 

And  she  was  gone!  never  did  more  loving  and  tender 
heart  forsake  all,  and  cling  to  a  more  loyal  and  generous 
nature.     The  skies  were  darkened  with  clouds, 

And  the  dim  stars  rushed  through  them  rare  and  fast ; 

and  the  winds  wailed  with  a  loud  and  ominous  voice; 
and  the  moon  came  forth,  with  a  faint  and  sickly  smile, 
from  her  chamber  in  the  mist,  and  then  shrank  back, 
and  was  seen  no  more ;  but  neither  omen  nor  fear  was 
upon  Mordaunt's  breast,  as  it  swelled  beneath  the  dark 
locks  of  Isabel,  which  were  pressed  against  it. 

As  Faith  clings  the  more  to  the  cross  of  life,  while  the 
wastes  deepen  around  her  steps,  and  the  adders  creep 
forth  upon  her  path,  so  Love  clasps  that  which  is  its 
hope  and  comfort  the  closer,  for  the  desert  which  encom- 
passes and  the  dangers  which  harass  its  way. 


THE   DISOWNED.  195 

They  had  fled  to  London,  and  Isabel  had  been  placed 
with  a  very  distant,  and  very  poor,  though  very  high- 
born relative  of  Algernon,  till  the  necessary  prelim- 
inaries could  be  passed,  and  the  final  bond  knit.  Yet 
still  the  generous  Isabel  would  have  refused,  despite 
the  injury  to  her  own  fame,  to  have  ratified  a  union 
which  filled  her  with  gloomy  presentiments  for  Mor- 
daunt's  fate;  and  still  Mordaunt  by  little  and  little 
broke  down  her  tender  scruples  and  self-immolating 
resolves,  and  ceased  not  his  eloquence  and  his  suit  till 
the  day  of  his  nuptials  was  set  and  come. 

The  morning  rose  bright  and  clear,  —  the  autumn  was 
drawing  towards  its  close,  and  seemed  willing  to  leave 
its  last  remembrance  tinged  with  the  warmth  and  soft- 
ness of  its  parent  summer,  rather  than  with  the  stern 
gloom  and  severity  of  its  chilling  successor. 

And  they  stood  beside  the  altar,  and  their  vows  were 
exchanged.  A  slight  tremor  came  over  Algernon's 
frame,  a  slight  shade  darkened  his  countenance;  for 
even  in  that  bridal  hour  an  icy  and  thrilling  foreboding 
curdled  to  his  heart;  it  passed,  —  the  ceremony  was 
over,  and  INIordaunt  bore  his  blushing  and  weeping  bride 
from  the  church.  His  carriage  was  in  attendance;  for, 
not  knowing  how  long  the  home  of  his  ancestors  might 
be  his,  he  was  impatient  to  return  to  it.  The  old 
Countess  d'Arcy,  Mordaunt's  relation,  with  whom  Isabel 
had  been  staying,  called  them  back  to  bless  them ;  for, 
even  through  the  coldness  of  old  age,  she  was  touched 
by  the  singularity  of  their  love,  and  affected  by  their 
nobleness  of  heart.  She  laid  her  wan  and  shrivelled 
hand  upon  each,  as  she  bade  them  farewell,  and  each 
shrank  back  involuntarily,  for  the  cold  and  light  touch 
seemed  like  the  fingers  of  the  dead. 

Fearful  indeed  is  the  vicinity  of  death  and  life, —  the 


196  THE   DISOWNED. 

bridal  chamber  and  the  charnel.  That  night  the  old 
woman  died.  It  appeared  as  if  fate  had  set  its  seal 
upon  the  union  it  had  so  long  forbidden,  and  had 
woven  a  dark  thread  even  in  tlie  marriage  bond.  At 
least,  it  tore  from  two  hearts,  over  which  the  cloud  and 
the  blast  lay  couched  in  a  "  grim  repose,"  the  last  shel- 
ter, which,  however  frail  and  distant,  seemed  left  to 
them  upon  the  inhospitable  earth. 


THE   DISOWNED.  197 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 


Live  while  ye  may,  yet  happy  pair  :  enjoy 
Short  pleasures,  for  long  woes  are  to  succeed. 


MiLTOK. 


The  autumn  and  the  winter  passed  away;  Mordaunt's 
relation  continued  implacable.  Algernon  grieved  for 
this,  independent  of  worldly  circumstances;  for,  though 
he  had  seldom  seen  that  relation,  yet  he  loved  him  for 
former  kindness  —  rather  promised,  to  be  sure ,  than  yet 
shown  —  with  the  natural  warmth  of  an  affection  which 
has  but  few  objects.  However,  the  old  gentleman  (a 
very  short,  very  fat  person,  —  very  short  and  very  fat 
people,  when  they  are  surly,  are  the  devil  and  all; 
for  the  humors  of  their  mind,  like  those  of  their  body, 
have  something  corrupt  and  unpurgeable  in  them) 
wrote  him  one  bluff,  contemptuous  letter,  in  a  witty 
strain,  —  for  he  was  a  bit  of  a  humorist;  disowned  his 
connection,  and  very  shortly  afterwards  died,  and  left  all 
his  fortune  to  the  very  Mr.  Vavasour  who  was  at  law 
with  Mordaunt,  and  for  whom  he  had  always  openly 
expressed  the  strongest  personal  dislike,  —  spite  to  one 
relation  is  a  marvellous  tie  to  another.  Meanwhile,  the 
lawsuit  went  on  less  slowly  than  lawsuits  usually  do, 
and  the  final  decision  was  very  speedily  to  be  given. 

We  said  the  autumn  and  the  winter  were  gone;  and 
it  was  in  one  of  those  latter  days  in  March,  when, 
like  a  hoiden  girl  subsiding  into  dawning  womanhood, 
the  rude  weather  mellows  into  a  softer  and  tenderer 
month,  that,  by  the  side  of  a  stream,  overshadowed  by 
many  a  brake  and  tree,  sat  two  persons. 


198  THE    DISOWNED.       - 

"I  know  not,  dearest  Algernon,"  said  one,  who  was 
a  female,  "  if  this  is  not  almost  the  sweetest  month  in 
the  year,  because  it  is  the  month  of  Hope." 

"  Ay,  Isabel ;  and  they  did  it  wrong  who  called  it 
harsh,  and  dedicated  it  to  Mars.  I  exult  even  in  the 
fresh  winds  which  hardier  frames  than  mine  shrink  from, 
and  I  love  feeling  their  wild  breath  fan  ray  cheek  as  I 
ride  against  it.  I  remember,"  continued  Algernon,  mus- 
ingly, "  that  on  this  very  day  three  years  ago,  I  was  trav- 
elling through  Germany,  alone  and  on  horseback,  and  I 
paused,  not  far  from  Ens,  on  the  banks  of  the  Danube. 
The  waters  of  the  river  were  disturbed  and  fierce,  and  the 
winds  came  loud  and  angry  against  my  face,  dashing  the 
spray  of  the  waves  upon  me,  and  filling  my  spirit  with 
a  buoyant  and  glad  delight ;  and  at  that  time  I  had  been 
indulging  old  dreams  of  poetry,  and  had  laid  my  philos- 
ophy aside;  and  in  the  inspiration  of  the  moment  I 
lifted  up  my  hand  towards  the  (juarter  whence  tlie  winds 
came,  and  questioned  them  audibly  of  their  birthplace 
and  their  bourn;  and  as  the  enthusiasm  increased,  I  com- 
pared them  to  our  human  life,  which  a  moment  is,  and 
then  is  not;  and  proceeding  from  folly  to  folly,  I  asked 
them,  as  if  they  were  the  interpreters  of  Heaven,  for  a 
type  and  sign  of  my  future  lot." 

"  And  what  said  they?  "  inquired  Isabel,  smiling,  yet 
smiling  timidly. 

"They  answered  not,"  replied  Mordaunt;  "but  a 
voice  within  me  seemed  to  say,  'Look  above!  '  and  I 
raised  my  eyes ;  but  I  did  not  see  thee,  love,  —  to  the 
Book  of  Fate  lied." 

"Nay,  Algernon,  what  did  you  see?"  asked  Isabel, 
more  earnestly  than  the  question  deserved. 

"  I  saw  a  thin  cloud,  alone  amidst  many  dense  and 
dark  ones  scattered  around;  and  as  I  gazed,  it  seemed 


THE   DISOWNED.  199 

to  take  the  likeness  of  a  funeral  procession,  — coffin, 
bearers,  priest,  all, —  as  clear  in  the  cloud  as  I  have  seen 
them  on  the  earth;  and  I  shuddered  as  I  saw.  But  the 
winds  blew  the  vapor  onwards,  and  it  mingled  with  the 
broader  masses  of  cloud;  and  then,  Isabel,  the  sun  shone 
forth  for  a  moment,  and  I  mistook,  love,  when  I  said 
you  were  not  there,  for  that  sun  was  you.  But  suddenly 
the  winds  ceased,  and  the  rain  came  on  fast  and  heavy; 
so  my  romance  cooled,  and  my  fever  slaked.  I  thought 
on  the  inn  at  Ens,  and  the  blessings  of  a  wood  fire,  which 
is  lighted  in  a  moment,  and  I  spurred  on  my  horse 
accordingly. " 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  said  Isabel. 

"  What,  love  ?  "  whispered  Algernon,  kissing  her 
cheek. 

"  Nothing,  dearest,  nothing." 

At  that  instant,  the  deer,  which  lay  waving  their 
lordly  antlers  to  and  fro  beneath  the  avenue  which 
sloped  upward  from  the  stream  to  the  house,  rose  hur- 
riedly and  in  confusion,  and  stood  gazing,  with  watchful 
eyes,  upon  a  man  advancing  towards  the  pair. 

It  was  one  of  the  servants  with  a  letter.  Isabel  saw 
a  faint  change  (which  none  else  could  have  seen)  in 
Mordaunt's  countenance  as  he  recognized  the  writing 
and  broke  the  seal.  When  he  had  read  the  letter,  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  ground,  and  then,  with  a  slight  start, 
he  lifted  them  up,  and  gazed  long  and  eagerly  around. 
Wistfully  did  he  drink,  as  it  were,  into  his  heart  the 
beautiful  and  expanded  scene  which  lay  stretched  on 
either  side :  the  noble  avenue  which  his  forefathers  had 
planted  as  a  shelter  to  their  sons,  and  which  now,  in  its 
majestic  growth  and  its  waving  boughs,  seemed  to  say, 
"Lo!  ye  are  repaid!"  and  the  never  silent  and  silver 
stream,  by  which  his  boyhood  had  sat  for  hours,  lulled 


200  THE    DISOWNED. 

Ijy  its  music,  and  inhaling  the  fragrance  of  the  reed  and 
wild  flower  that  decoyed  the  bee  to  its  glossy  banks; 
and  the  deer,  to  whose  melancholy  belling  he  had  lis- 
tened so  often  in  the  gray  twilight  with  a  rapt  and 
dreaming  ear;  and  the  green  fern  waving  on  the  gentle 
hill,  from  whose  shade  his  young  feet  had  startled  the 
hare  and  the  infant  fawn;  and  far  and  faintly  gleaming 
through  the  thick  trees,  which  clasped  it  as  with  a 
girdle,  the  old  Hall,  so  associated  with  vague  hopes  and 
musing  dreams,  and  the  dim  legends  of  gone  time  and 
the  lofty  prejudices  of  ancestral  pride,  —  all  seemed  to 
sink  within  him,  as  he  gazed,  like  the  last  looks  of 
departing  friends;  and  when  Isabel,  who  had  not  dared 
to  break  a  silence  Avhich  partook  so  strongly  of  gloom,  at 
length  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  lifted  her  dark, 
deep,  tender  eyes  to  his,  he  said,  as  he  drew  her  towards 
him,  and  a  faint  and  sickly  smile  played  upon  his 
lips,— 

"It  is  past,  Isabel;  henceforth  we  have  no  Avealth 
but  in  each  other.  The  cause  has  been  decided,  and  — 
and  —  we  are  beggars !  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  201 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

We  expose  our  life  to  a  quotidian  ague  of  frigid  impertinences, 
which  would  make  a  wise  man  tremble  to  think  of.  —  Cowley. 

We  must  suppose  a  lapse  of  four  years  from  the  date  of 
those  events  which  concluded  the  last  chapter;  and  to 
recompense  the  reader  who,  I  know,  has  a  little  pen- 
chant for  "High  Life,"  even  in  the  last  century,  for 
having  hitherto  shown  him  human  beings  in  a  state  of 
society  not  wholly  artificial,  I  beg  him  to  picture  to 
himself  a  large  room,  brilliantly  illuminated  and  crowded 
"  with  the  magnates  of  the  land. "  Here  (some  in  salta- 
tory motion,  some  in  sedentary  rest)  are  dispersed  various 
groups  of  young  ladies  and  attendant  swains,  talking 
upon  the  subject  of  Lord  Rochester's  celebrated  poem, 
—  namely,  Nothinri  !  —  and  lounging  around  the  doors, 
meditating  probably  upon  the  same  subject,  stand  those 
unhappy  victims  of  dancing  daughters,  denominated 
"  papas." 

The  music  has  ceased;  the  dancers  have  broken  up, 
and  there  is  a  general  but  gentle  sweep  towards  the  re- 
freshment-room. In  the  crowd  —  having  just  entered  — 
there  glided  a  young  man  of  an  air  more  distinguished 
and  somewhat  more  joyous  than  the  rest. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Linden?"  said  a  tall  and 
(though  somewhat  passee)  very^  handsome  woman,  blaz- 
ing with  diamonds;  "  are  you  just  come?  " 

And  here,  by  the  way,  I  cannot  resist  pausing  to 
observe  that  a  friend  of  mine,  meditating  a  novel,  sub- 
mitted a  part  of  the  MS.  to  a  friendly  publisher.     "  Sir," 


202  TIIE    DISOWNED. 

said  the  hookscller,  "  your  book  is  very  clever,  Init  it 
Ava)its  dialogue." 

"  Dialogue  ?  "  cried  my  friend,  — "  you  mistake  :  it  is 
all  dialogue." 

"  Ay,  sir,  but  not  what  ive  call  dialogue ;  we  want  a 
little  conversation  in  fashionaljle  life, — a  little  elegant 
chit  chat  or  so;  and  as  you  must  have  seen  so  much 
of  the  beau  mo7ide,  you  could  do  it  to  the  life.  We  must 
have  something  light  and  witty  and  entertaining." 

"Light,  witty,  and  entertaining!"  said  our  poor 
friend;  '  and  how  the  deuce  then  is  it  to  he  like  conver- 
sation in  '  fashionable  life  '  ?  When  tlie  very  best  con- 
versation one  can  get  is  so  insufferably  dull,  how  do  you 
think  people  will  be  amused  by  reading  a  copy  of  the 
very  worst  1  " 

"They  are  amused,  sir,"  said  the  publisher,  "and 
works  of  this  kind  sell !  " 

"  I  am  convinced,"  said  my  friend;  for  he  was  a  man 
of  a  placid  temper.  He  took  the  hint,  and  his  book  did 
sell! 

Now  this  anecdote  rushed  into  my  mind  after  the  pen- 
ning of  the  little  address  of  the  lady  in  diamonds, — 
"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Linden  1  Are  you  just  come  'i  " 
—  and  it  received  an  additional  weight  from  my  utter 
inability  to  put  into  the  mouth  of  Mr.  Linden  —  not- 
withstanding my  desire  of  representing  him  in  the  most 
brilliant  colors  —  any  more  happy  and  eloquent  answer 
than,  "  Only  this  instant!  " 

However,  as  this  is  in  tlie  true  spirit  of  elegant  dia- 
logue, I  trust  my  readers  will  find  it  as  light,  witty,  and 
entertaining  as,  according  to  the  said  publisher,  the 
said  dialogue  is  always  found  by  the  public. 

While  Clarence  was  engaged  in  talking  with  this  lady, 
a  very  pretty,  lively,  animated  girl,  with  laughing  blue 


THE   DISOWNED.  203 

eyes,  which,  joined  to  the  dazzling  fairness  of  her  com- 
plexion, gave  a  Hebe-like  youth  to  her  features  and 
expression,  was  led  up  to  the  said  lady  by  a  tall  young 
man,  and  consigned,  with  the  ceremonious  bow  of  the 
vieille  cour,  to  her  protection. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Linden,"  cried  the  young  lady,  "I  am 
very  glad  to  see  you,  — such  a  beautiful  ball!  Every- 
body here  that  I  most  like.  Have  you  had  any  re- 
freshments. Mamma?  But  I  need  not  ask,  for  lam 
sure  you  have  not;  do  come,  Mr.  Linden  will  be  our 
cavalier." 

"  Well,  Flora,  as  you  please,"  said  the  elder  lady, 
with  a  proud  and  fond  look  at  her  beautiful  daughter ; 
and  they  proceeded  to  the  refreshment-room. 

No  sooner  were  they  seated  at  one  of  the  tables  than 
they  were  accosted  by  Lord  St.  George,  a  nobleman 
whom  Clarence,  before  he  left  England,  had  met  more 
than  once  at  Mr.  Talbot's. 

"  London,"  said  his  lordship  to  her  of  the  diamonds, 
"has  not  seemed  like  the  same  place  since  Lady  West- 
borongh  arrived ;  your  presence  brings  out  all  the  other 
luminaries;  and  therefore  a  young  acquaintance  of 
mine  —  God  bless  me,  there  he  is,  seated  by  Lady 
Flora  —  very  justly  called  you  '  the  evening  star.'  " 

"Was  that  Mr.  Linden's  pretty  saying?"  said  Lady 
Westborough,  smiling. 

"  It  was,"  answered  Lord  St.  George,  —  "  and,  by  the 
by,  he  is  a  very  sensible,  pleasant  person,  and  greatly 
improved  since  he  left  England  last. " 

"  What !  "  said  Lady  Westborough  in  a  low  tone  (for 
Clarence,  though  in  earnest  conversation  Avith  Lady 
Flora,  was  within  hearing),  and  making  room  for  Lord 
St.  George  beside  her, —  "  what!  did  i/ou  know  him  be- 
fore he  went  to ?     You  can  probably  tell  me,  then, 


204  THE   DISOWNED. 

who  —  that  is  to  say  —  wliat  family  he  is  exactly  of,  — 
the  Lindens  of  Devonshire,  or  —  or  —  " 

"Why,  really,"  said  Lord  St.  George,  a  little  con- 
fused, for  no  man  likes  to  be  acquainted  with  persons 
whose  pedigree  he  cannot  explain,  "  I  don't  know  what 
may  be  his  family.  I  met  him  at  Talbot's  four  or  five 
years  ago;  he  was  then  a  mere  boy,  but  he  struck  me 
as  being  very  clever,  and  Talbot  since  told  me  that  he 
was  a  nephew  of  his  own, " 

"  Talbot,"  said  Lady  Westborough,  musingly,  — 
"what  Talbot?" 

"  Oh !  the  Talbot,  —  the  ci-devant  jeune  liomme  !  " 

"  What,  that  charming,  clever,  animated  old  gentle- 
man, who  used  to  dress  so  oddly,  and  had  been  so  cele- 
brated a  heaii  gargon  in  his  day  ?  " 

"Exactly  so,"  said  Lord  St.  George,  taking  snuff, 
and  delighted  to  find  he  had  set  his  young  acquaintance 
on  so  honorable  a  footing. 

"  I  did  not  know  he  Avas  still  alive,"  said  Lady  West- 
borough;  and  then,  turning  her  eyes  towards  Clarence 
and  her  daughter  she  added  carelessly,  "  Mr.  Talbot  is 
very  rich,  is  he  not  1  " 

"Rich  as  Croesus,"  replied  Lord  St.  George,  Avith  a 
sigh. 

"  And  Mr.  Linden  is  his  heir,  I  suppose?  " 

"In  all  probability,"  answered  Lord  St.  George; 
"  though  I  believe  I  can  boast  a  distant  relationship  to 
Talbot.  However,  I  could  not  make  him  fully  under- 
stand it  the  other  day,  though  I  took  particular  pains  to 
explain  it." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on  between  the 
Marchioness  of  Westborough  and  Lord  St.  George,  a 
dialogue  equally  interesting  to  the  parties  concerned, 
and,  I  hope,  equally  light,  witty,  and  entertaining  to 


THE   DISOWNED.  205 

readers  in  general,  was  sustained  between  Clarence  and 
Lady  Flora. 

"How  long  shall  you  stay  in  England?"  asked  the 
latter,  looking  down. 

"I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  decide,"  replied  Clar- 
ence; "  for  it  rests  with  the  ministers,  not  me.  Directly 
Lord  Aspeden  obtains  another  appointment,  I  am  prom- 
ised the  office  of  Secretary  of  Legation;  but  till  then 
I  am 

'A  captive  in  Augusta's  towers, 
To  beauty  and  her  train.'" 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Lady  Flora,  laughing,  "  you  mean  IMrs. 
Desborough  and  her  train ;  see  where  they  sweep !  Pray 
go  and  render  her  homage. " 

"It  is  rendered,"  said  Linden,  in  a  low  voice,— 
"without  so  long  a  pilgrimage,  but  perhaps  despised." 

Lady  Flora's  laugh  was  hushed;  the  deepest  blushes 
suffused  her  cheeks,  and  the  whole  character  of  that  face, 
before  so  playful  and  joyous,  seemed  changed,  as  by  a 
spell,  into  a  grave,  subdued,  and  even  timid  look. 

Linden  resumed,  and  his  voice  scarcely  rose  above  a 
ivhisjyer.  A  whisper!  0  delicate  and  fairy  sound! 
music  that  speaketh  to  the  heart,  as  if  loth  to  break  the 
spell  that  binds  it  while  it  listens!  Sigh  breathed  into 
words,  and  freighting  love  in  tones  languid,  like  home- 
ward bees,  by  the  very  sweets  with  which  they  are 
charged ! 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  he,  "  that  evening  at , 

when  we  last  parted,  and  the  boldness  which  at  that 
time  you  were  gentle  enough  to  forgive  ?  " 

Lady  Flora  replied  not. 

"  And  do  you  remember,"  continued  Clarence,  "  that  I 
told   you  that  it  was  not  as  an   unknown  and  obscure 


iiU6  ■      THE   DISOWNED. 

adventurer,  tliat  I  would  claim  the  hand  of  her  whose 
heart,  as  an  adventurer,  I  had  won?  " 

Lady  Flora  raised  her  eyes  for  one  moment,  and,  en- 
countering the  ardent  gaze  of  Clarence,  as  instantly 
dropped  them. 

"The  time  is  not  yet  come,"  said  Linden,  "for  the 
fulfilment  of  this  promise;  but  may  I  —  dare  I  hope, 
tliat  when  it  does,  I  shall  not  be  —  " 

"  Flora,  my  love,"  said  Lady  Wcstborough,  "let  me 
introduce  to  you  Lord  Borodaile." 

Lady  Flora  turned,  —  the  spell  was  broken;  and  the 
lovers  were  instantly  transformed  into  ordinary  mortals. 
But,  as  Flora,  after  returning  Lord  Borodaile 's  address, 
glanced  her  eye  towards  Clarence,  she  was  struck  with 
the  sudden  and  singular  change  of  his  countenance. 
The  flush  of  youth  and  passion  was  fled,  his  complexion 
was  deadly  pale,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  with  a  searching 
and  unaccountable  meaning  upon  the  face  of  the  young 
nobleman,  who  was  alternately  addressing,  with  a  quiet 
and  somewhat  haughty  fluency,  the  beautiful  mother, 
and  the  more  lovely  though  less  commanding  daughter. 
Directly  Linden  perceived  that  he  was  observed,  he  rose, 
turned  away,  and  Avas  soon  lost  among  the  crowd. 

Lord  Borodaile ,  the  son  and  heir  of  the  powerful  Earl 
of  Ulswater,  was  about  the  age  of  thirty,  small,  slight, 
and  rather  handsome  than  otherwise,  though  his  com- 
plexion was  dark  and  sallow,  and  a  very  aquiline  nose 
gave  a  stern  and  somewhat  severe  air  to  his  countenance. 
He  had  been  for  several  years  abroad,  in  various  parts  of 
the  Continent,  and  (no  other  field  for  an  adventurous 
and  fierce  spirit  presenting  itself)  had  served  with  the 
gallant  Earl  of  Effingham,  in  the  war  between  the  Turks 
and  Bussians,  as  a  volunteer  in  the  armies  of  the  latter. 
In  this  service  he  had   been   highly  distinguished  for 


THE   DISOWNED.  207 

courage  and  conduct,  and  on  his  return  to  England 
about  a  twelvemonth  since  had  obtained  the  command 
of  a  cavalry  regiment.  Passionately  fond  of  his  profes- 
sion, he  entered  into  its  minutest  duties  with  a  zeal  not 
exceeded  by  the  youngest  and  poorest  subaltern  in  the 
army. 

His  manners  were  very  cold,  haughty,  collected,  and 
self-possessed,  and  his  conversation  that  of  a  man  Avho 
has  cultivated  his  intellect  rather  in  the  world  than  the 
closet.  I  mean  that,  perfectly  ignorant  of  things,  he 
was  driven  to  converse  solely  upon  persons,  and  having 
imbibed  no  other  philosophy  than  that  Avhich  worldly 
deceits  and  disappointments  bestow,  his  remarks,  though 
shrewd,  were  bitterly  sarcastic,  and  partook  of  all  the 
ill-nature  for  which  a  very  scanty  knowledge  of  the 
world  gives  a  sour  and  malevolent  mind  so  ready  an 
excuse. 

"How  very  disagreeable  Lord  Borodaile  is!"  said 
Lady  "Flora,  when  the  object  of  the  remark  turned  away, 
and  rejoined  some  idlers  of  his  corps. 

"  Disagreeable!  "  said  Lady  Westborough, —  "  I  think 
him  charming ;  he  is  so  sensible.  How  true  his  remarks 
on  the  world  are !  " 

Thus  it  is  always:  the  young  judge  harshly  of  those 
who  undeceive  or  revolt  their  enthusiasm;  and  the 
more  advanced  in  years,  who  have  not  learned  by  a 
diviner  wisdom  to  look  upon  the  human  follies  and 
errors  by  which  they  have  suffered  with  a  pitying  and 
lenient  eye,  consider  every  maxim  of  severity  on  those 
frailties  as  the  proof  of  a  superior  knowledge,  and  praise 
that  as  a  profundity  of  thought  which  in  reality  is  but 
an  infirmity  of  temper. 

Clarence  is  now  engaged  in  a  minuet  de  la  eour,  with 
the  beautiful  Countess  of  ,  the  best  dancer  of  the 


208  THE   DISOWNED. 

day  in  England.  Lady  Flora  is  flirting  with  half-a- 
dozen  beaux,  the  more  violently  in  proportion  as  she 
observes  the  animation  with  which  Clarence  converses, 
and  the  grace  with  wliich  his  partner  moves;  and  hav- 
ing tluis  loft  our  two  principal  personages  occupied  and 
engaged,  let  us  turn  for  a  moment  to  a  room  which  we 
have  not  entered. 

This  is  a  forlorn,  deserted  chamljer,  destined  to  cards, 
which  are  never  played  in  this  temple  of  Terpsichore. 
At  the  far  end  of  this  room,  opposite  to  the  fireplace, 
are  seated  four  men,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation. 

The  tallest  of  these  Avas  Lord  Quintown,  a  nobleman 
remarkable  at  that  day  for  his  personal  advantages,  his 
good  fortune  with  the  beau  sexe,  his  attempts  at  par- 
liamentary eloquence,  in  which  he  was  lamentably  un- 
successful, and  his  adherence  to  Lord  North.  Kext  to 
him  sat  Mr.  St.  George,  the  younger  brother  of  Lord 
St.  George,  a  gentleman  to  whom  power  and  place 
seemed  married  without  hope  of  divorce;  for,  whatever 
had  been  the  changes  ot  ministry  for  the  last  twelve 
years,  he,  secure  in  a  lucrative,  though  subordinate 
situation,  had  "  smiled  at  the  whirlwind,  and  defied  the 
storm,"  and  while  all  things  shifted  and  vanished 
round  him,  like  clouds  and  vapors,  had  remained  fixed 
and  stationary  as  a  star.  "  Solid  St.  George  "  was  his 
appellative  by  his  friends,  and  his  enemies  di  1  not 
grudge  him  the  title.      The  third  was  the  minister  for 

;    and    the    fourth    was    Clarence's    friend.    Lord 

Aspeden.  Now  this  nobleman,  blessed  with  a  benevo- 
lent, smooth,  calm  coimtenance,  valued  himself  espe- 
cially upon  his  diplomatic  elegance  in  turning  a 
compliment. 

Having  a  great  taste  for  literature  as  well  as  diplo- 
macy, this  respected  and  respectable  peer  also  possessed 


THE   DISOWNED.  209 

a  curious  felicity  for  applying  quotation;  and  nothing 
rejoiced  him  so  much  as  when,  in  the  same  phrase,  he 
was  enahled  to  set  the  two  jewels  of  his  courtliness  of 
flattery  and  his  profundity  of  erudition.  Unhappily 
enough,  his  compliments  were  seldom  as  well  taken  as 
they  were  meant;  and,  whether  from  the  ingratitude  of 
the  persons  complimented,  or  the  ill-fortune  of  the 
noble  adulator,  seemed  sometimes  to  produce  indigna- 
tion in  place  of  delight.  It  has  been  said  that  his  civil- 
ities had  cost  Lord  Aspeden  four  duels  and  one  beating; 
but  these  reports  were  probably  the  malicious  invention 
of  those  who  had  never  tasted  the  delicacies  of  his 
flattery. 

Now  these  four  persons  being  all  members  of  the 
Privy  Council,  and  being  thus  engaged  in  close  and 
earnest  conference,  were,  you  will  suppose,  employed  in 
discussing  the  gravities  and  secrets  of  state,  —  no  such 
thing:  thtit  whisper  from  Lord  QuintoAvar,  the  handsome 
nobleman,  to  Mr.  St.  George,  is  no  hoarded  and  valuable 
information  which  would  rejoice  the  heart  of  the  editor 
of  an  opposition  paper,  no  direful  murmur,  "  perplexing 
nionarchs  with  the  dread  of  change ;  "  it  is  only  a  recent 
piece  of  scandal,  touching  the  virtue  of  a  lady  of  the 
court,  which  (albeit  the  sage  listener  seems  to  pay  so  de- 
vout an  attention  to  the  news)  is  far  more  interesting 
to  the  gallant  and  handsome  informant  than  to  his  brother 
statesman ;  and  that  emphatic  and  vehement  tone    with 

which  Lord  Aspeden  is  assuring  the  minister  for 

of  some  fact,  is  merely  an  angry  denunciation  of  the 
chicanery  practised  at  the  last  Newmarket. 

"By  the  by,  Aspeden,"  said  Lord  Quintown,  "  who  is 
that  good-looking  fellow  always  flirting  with  Lady  Flora 
Ardenne,  —  an  attache  of  yours,  is  he  not?  " 

"  Oh!  Linden,  I  suppose  you  mean.     A  very  sensible, 

VOL.  I.  —  14 


210  THE   DISOWNED. 

clev'er  young  fellow  who  has  a  great  genius  for  hiisiness, 
and  plays  the  flute  admirably.  I  must  have  liim  for  my 
secretary,  my  dear  lord,  mind  that." 

"  With  such  a  recommendation,  Lord  Aspeden,"  said 
the  minister,  with  a  bow,  "  the  state  would  be  a  great 
loser  did  it  not  elect  your  attacM,  who  plays  so  admir- 
ably on  the  flute,  to  the  office  of  your  secretary.  Let  us 
join  the  dancers." 

"  I  shall  go  and  talk  with  Count  B ,"  quoth  Mr. 

St.  George. 

"  And  I  shall  make  my  court  to  his  beautiful  wife," 
said  the  minister,  sauntering  into  the  ball-room,  to 
which  his  fine  person  and  graceful  manner  were  much 
better  adapted  than  was  his  genius  to  the  cabinet,  or  his 
eloquence  to  the  senate. 

The  morning  had  long  dawned,  and  Clarence,  for 
whose  mind  pleasure  was  more  fatiguing  than  business, 
lingered  near  the  door,  to  catch  one  last  look  of  Lady 
Flora  before  he  retired.  He  saw  her  leaning  on  tl)e 
arm  of  Lord  Borodaile,  and  hastening  to  join  the 
dancers,  with  her  usual  light  step  and  laughing  air; 
for  Clarence's  short  conference  with  her  had,  in  spite  of 
his  subsequent  flirtations,  rendered  her  happier  than  she 
had  ever  felt  before.  Again  a  change  passed  over  Clar- 
ence's countenance,  —  a  change  which  I  find  it  difficult 
to  express  without  borrowing  from  those  celebrated 
German  dramatists  who  could  portray  in  such  exact 
colors  "a  look  of  mingled  joy,  sorrow,  hope,  passion, 
rapture,  and  despair;"  for  the  look  was  not  that  of 
jealousy  alone,  although  it  certainly  partook  of  its 
nature,  but  a  little  also  of  interest,  and  a  little  of  sor- 
row; and  when  he  turned  away,  and  slowly  descended 
the  stairs,  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  his  thoughts 
far,  far  away,  — whither? 


THE   DISOWNED.  211 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

QuiE  fert  adolescentia 
Ea  ne  me  celet  consuefeci  filiumA 

Terent. 

The  next  morning  Clarence  was  lounging  over  his  break- 
fast, and  glancing  listlessly  now  at  the  pages  of  the 
newspapers,  now  at  the  various  engagements  for  the 
week,  which  lay  confusedly  uj^on  his  table,  when  he 
received  a  note  from  Talbot,  requesting  to  see  him  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"Had  it  not  been  for  that  man,"  said  Clarence  to 
himself,  "  what  should  I  have  been  now?  But,  at  least, 
I  have  not  disgraced  his  friendship.  I  have  already 
ascended  the  roughest,  because  the  lowest  steps  on  the 
hill  where  Fortune  builds  her  temple.  I  have  already 
won  for  the  name  I  have  chosen  some  '  golden  opinions,' 
to  gild  its  obscurity.  One  year  more  may  confirm  my 
destiny,  and  ripen  hope  into  success;  then  —  then,  I 
may  perhaps  throw  off  a  disguise  that,  while  it  be- 
friended, has  not  degraded  me,  and  avow  myself  to  her  ! 
Yet  how  much  better  to  dignify  the  name  I  have  as- 
sumed, than  to  owe  respect  only  to  that  which  I  have 
not  been  deemed  worthy  to  inherit.  Well,  well,  these 
are  bitter  thoughts ;  let  me  turn  to  others.  How  beau- 
tiful Flora  looked  last  night!  and,  he  —  he  —  but  enough 
of  this.     I  must  dress,  and  then  to  Talbot." 

Muttering  these  wayward  fancies,  Clarence  rose,  com- 
pleted his  toilet,  sent  for  his  horses,  and  repaired  to  a 

^  The  things  which  youth  proposes  I  accustomed  my  son  that 
he  should  never  conceal  from  me. 


212  THE   DISOWNED. 

village  about  seven  miles  from  London,  where  Talljot, 
having  yielded  to  Clarence's  fears  and  solicitations,  and 
left  his  former  insecure  tenement,  now  resided  under  the 
guard  and  care  of  an  especial  and  private  watchman. 

It  was  a  pretty,  quiet  villa,  surrounded  by  a  planta- 
tion and  pleasure-ground  of  some  extent  for  a  suburban 
residence,  in  which  the  old  philosopher  (for  though,  in 
some  respects,  still  frail  and  prejudiced,  Talbot  deserved 
that  name)  held  his  home.  The  ancient  servant,  on 
whom  four  years  had  passed  lightly  and  favoringly, 
opened  the  door  to  Clarence,  with  his  usual  smile  of 
greeting,  and  familiar  yet  respectful  salutation,  and 
ushered  our  hero  into  a  room  furnished  Avith  the  usual 
fastidious  and  rather  feminine  luxury  which  characterized 
Talbot's  tastes.  Sitting  with  his  back  turned  to  the 
light,  in  a  large  easy-chair,  Clarence  found  the  wreck  of 
the  once  gallant,  gay  Lothario. 

There  was  not  much  alteration  in  his  coimtenance 
since  we  last  saw  him:  the  lines,  it  is  true,  were  a  little 
more  decided,  and  the  cheeks  a  little  more  sunken,  but 
the  dark  eye  beamed  with  all  its  wonted  vivacity,  and 
the  delicate  contour  of  the  mouth  preserved  all  its  physi- 
ognomical characteristics  of  the  inward  man.  He  rose 
with  somewhat  more  difficulty  than  he  was  formerly 
wont  to  do,  and  his  limbs  had  lost  much  of  their  sym- 
metrical proportions ;  yet  the  kind  clasp  of  his  hand  was 
as  firm  and  warm  as  when  it  had  pressed  that  of  the 
boyish  attache  four  years  since;  and  the  voice  which 
expressed  his  salutation,  yet  breathed  its  unconquered 
suavity  and  distinctness  of  modulation.  After  the  cus- 
tomary greetings  and  inquiries  were  given  and  returned, 
the  young  man  drew  his  chair  near  to  Talbot's,  and 
said, — 

"  You  sent  for  me,  dear  sir;  have  you  anything  more 


THE   DISOWNED.  213 

important  than  usual  to  impart  to  me!  or  —  and  I  hope 
this  is  the  case  —  have  you  at  last  thought  of  any  com- 
mission, however  trifling,  in  the  execution  of  which  I 
can  be  of  use  ?  " 

"Yes,  Clarence,  I  wish  your  judgment  to  select  me 
some  strawberries,  — you  know  that  I  am  a  great  epicure 
in  fruit,  —  and  get  me  the  new  work  Dr.  Johnson  has 
just  published.  There,  are  you  contented?  And  now, 
tell  me  all  about  your  horse,  —  does  he  step  well  1  Has 
he  the  true  English  head  and  shoulder  ?  Are  his  legs 
fine,  yet  strong?  Is  he  full  of  spirit  and  devoid  of 
vice  1  " 

"  He  is  all  this,  sir,  thanks  to  you  for  him." 

"Ah!"  cried  Talbot,— 

"  Old  as  I  am,  for  riding  feats  unfit, 
The  shape  of  horses  I  remember  yet. 

And  now  let  us  hear  how  you  like  Eanelagh;  and  above 
all  how  you  liked  the  ball  last  night  1  " 

And  the  vivacious  old  man  listened  with  the  pro- 
foundest  appearance  of  interest  to  all  the  particulars  of 
Clarence's  animated  detail.  His  vanity,  which  made 
him  wish  to  be  loved,  had  long  since  taught  him  the 
surest  method  of  becoming  so;  and  with  him  every 
visitor,  old,  young,  the  man  of  books,  or  the  disciple  of 
the  world,  was  sure  to  find  the  readiest  and  even  eagerest 
sympathy  in  every  amusement  or  occupation.  But  for 
Clarence,  this  interest  lay  deeper  than  in  the  surface  of 
courtly  breeding.  Gratitude  had  first  bound  to  him  his 
adopted  son,  then  a  tie,  yet  unexplained,  and  lastly,  but 
not  least,  the  pride  of  protection.  He  was  vain  of  the 
personal  and  mental  attractions  of  his  protege,  and  eager 
for  the  success  of  one  whose  honors  would  reflect  credit 
on  himself. 


21-4  THE   DISOWNED. 

But  there  was  one  part  of  Clarence's  account  of  the 
last  night  to  which  the  philosopher  paid  a  still  deeper 
attention,  and  on  which  he  was  more  minute  in  his 
advice;  what  this  was,  I  cannot,  as  yet,  reveal  to  the 
reader. 

The  conversation  then  turned  on  light  and  general 
matters,  —  the  scandal,  the  literature,  the  politics,  the 
071  dits  of  the  day;  and  lastly  upon  women;  thence 
Talbot  dropped  into  his  office  of  Mentor. 

"A  celebrated  cardinal  said,  very  wisely,  that  few 
ever  did  anything  among  men  until  women  were  no 
longer  an  object  to  them.  That  is  the  reason,  by  the 
by,  why  I  never  succeeded  with  the  former,  and  why 
people  seldom  acquire  any  reputation  except  for  a  hat, 
or  a  horse,  till  they  marry.  Look  round  at  the  various 
occupations  of  life.  How  few  bachelors  are  eminent  in 
any  of  them!  So  you  see,  Clarence,  you  will  have  my 
leave  to  marry  Lady  Flora  as  soon  as  you  please." 

Clarence  colored,  and  rose  to  depart,  Talbot  followed 
him  to  the  door,  and  then  said  in  a  careless  way,  "  By  the 
by,  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  tell  you  that,  as  you  have 
now  many  new  expenses,  you  will  find  the  yearly  sum 
you  have  hitherto  received  doubled.  To  give  you  this 
information  is  the  chief  reason  why  I  sent  for  you  this 
morning.     God  bless  you,  my  dear  boy." 

And  Talbot  shut  the  door,  despite  his  politeness,  in 
the  face  and  thanks  of  his  adopted  son. 


THE   DISOWNED.  215 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

There  is  a  great  difference  between  seeking  to  raise  a  langli  from 
everything,  and  seeking  in  everything  what  justly  may  be 
laughed  at.  —  Lord  Shaftesbury. 

Behold  our  hero,  now  in  the  zenith  of  distinguished 
dissipations!  Courteous,  attentive,  and  animated,  the 
women  did  not  esteem  him  the  less  for  admiring  them 
rather  than  himself;  Avhile  hy  the  gravity  of  his  de- 
meanor to  men,  the  eloquent  yet  unpretending  flow  of 
his  conversation  whenever  topics  of  intellectual  interest 
were  discussed,  the  plain  and  solid  sense  which  he  threw 
into  his  remarks,  and  the  avidity  with  Avhich  he  courted 
the  society  of  all  distinguished  for  literary  or  political 
eminence,  he  was  silently,  but  surely,  establishing  him- 
self in  esteem  as  well  as  popularity,  and  laying  the 
certain  foundation  of  future  honor  and  success. 

Thus,  although  he  had  only  been  four  months  re- 
turned to  England,  he  was  already  known  and  courted 
in  every  circle,  and  universally  spoken  of  as  among 
"  the  most  rising  young  gentlemen  "  whom  fortune  and 
the  administration  had  marked  for  their  own.  His  his- 
tory, during  the  four  years  in  which  we  have  lost  sight 
of  him,  is  briefly  told. 

He  soon  won  his  way  into  the  good  graces  of  Lord 
Aspeden,  became  his  private  secretary,  and  occasionally 
his  confidant.  Universally  admired  for  his  attraction 
of  form  and  manner,  and,  though  aiming  at  reputation, 
not  averse  to  pleasure,  he  had  that  position  which 
fashion  confers  at  the  Court  of ,  when  Lady  West- 


216  THE    DISOWNED. 

borough  and  lier  beautiful  daughter,  then  only  seven- 
teen,  came  to  ,   in  the  jjrogress  of  a  Continental 

tour,  about  a  year  before  his  return  to  England.  Clar- 
ence and  Lady  Flora  were  naturally  brought  much  to- 
gether in  the  restricted  circle  of  a  small  court,  and 
intimacy  soon  ripened  into  attachment. 

Lord  Aspeden  being  recalled,  Clarence  accompanied 
him  to  England;  and  the  ex-minister,  really  liking 
much  one  Avho  was  so  useful  to  him,  had  faithfully 
promised  to  procure  him  the  ofhce  and  honor  of  sec- 
retary whenever  his  lordship  should  be  reappointed 
minister. 

Three  intimate  acquaintances  had  Clarence  Linden. 
The  one  was  the  Honorable  Henry  Trollolop,  the 
second  Mr.  Callythorpe,  and  the  third  Sir  Christopher 
Findlater.  We  will  sketch  them  to  you  in  an  instant. 
Mr.  Trollolop  was  a  short,  stout  gentleman ,  with  a  very 
thoughtful  countenance,  — that  is  to  say,  he  wore  spec- 
tacles, and  took  snuff.  Mr.  Trollolop  —  we  delight  in 
pronouncing  that  soft,  liquid  name  —  was  eminently 
distinguished  by  a  love  of  metaphysics.  Metaphysics 
were  in  a  great  measure  the  order  of  the  day ;  but  fate 
had  endowed  Mr.  Trollolop  with  a  singular  and  felici- 
tous confusion  of  idea.  Reid,  Berkeley,  Cudworth, 
Hobbes,  all  lay  jumbled  together  in  most  edifying  chaos 
at  the  bottom  of  Mr.  Trollolop's  capacious  mind;  and 
whenever  he  opened  his  mouth,  the  imprisoned  enemies 
came  rushing  and  scrambling  out,  overturning  and  con- 
tradicting each  other,  in  a  manner  quite  astounding  to 
tlie  ignorant  spectator.  Mr.  Callythorpe  was  meagre, 
thin,  sharp,  and  yellow.  Whether  from  having  a  great 
propensity  for  nailing  stray  acquaintances,  or  being  par- 
ticularly heavy  company,  or  from  any  other  cause  better 
known  to  the  wits  of  the  period  than  to  us,  he  was 


THE   DISOWNED.  217 

occasionally  termed  by  his  friends,  the  "yellow  ham- 
mer."  The  peculiar  characteristics  of  this  gentleman 
were  his  sincerity  and  friendship.  These  qualities  led 
him  into  saying  tilings  the  most  disagreeable,  with  the 
civilest  and  coolest  manner  in  the  world ,  —  always  pre- 
facing them  with,  "  You  know,  my  dear  so-and-so,  / 
am  your  true  friend."  If  this  proof  of  amity  was  now 
and  then  productive  of  altercation,  Mr.  Callythorpe, 
who  was  a  great  patriot,  had  another  and  a  nobler  plea, 
: — "  Sir,"  he  would  say,  putting  his  hand  to  his  heart, 
—  "  sir,  I  'm  an  Englishman:  I  know  not  what  it  is  to 
feign. "  Of  a  very  ditferent  stamp  was  Sir  Christopher 
Findlater.  Little  cared  he  for  the  subtleties  of  the 
human  mind,  and  not  much  more  for  the  disagreeable 
duties  of  "  an  Englishman. "  Honest  and  jovial ,  red  in 
the  cheeks,  empty  in  the  head,  born  to  twelve  thousand 
a  year,-  educated  in  the  country,  and  heir  to  an  earldom. 
Sir  Christopher  Findlater  piqued  himself,  notwithstand- 
ing his  worldly  advantages,  usually  so  destructive  to  the 
kindlier  affections,  on  having  the  best  heart  in  the 
world,  and  this  good  heart  having  a  very  bad  head  to 
regulate  and  support  it,  was  the  perpetual  cause  of  error 
to  the  owner  and  evil  to  the  public. 

One  evening,  when  Clarence  was  alone  in  his  rooms, 
Mr.  Trollolop  entered. 

"  My  dear  Linden,"  said  the  visitor,  "  how  are  you?  " 

"I  am,  as  I  hope  you  are,  very  well,"  answered 
Clarence. 

"  The  human  mind,"  said  Trollolop,  taking  off  his 
greatcoat,  —  "  Sir  Christopher  Findlater,  and  Mr.  Cally- 
thorpe, sir,"  said  the  valet, 

"  Pshaw !  What  has  Sir  Christopher  Findlater  to  do 
with  the  human  mind  1  "  muttered  Mr.  Trollolop. 

Sir  Christopher  entered  with  a  swagger  and  a  laugh. 


218  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  Well,  old  fellow,  how  do  you  do?  Deuced  cold  tliis 
evening. " 

"Though  it  is  an  evening  in  May,"  observed  Clar- 
ence; "but  then,  this  cursetl  climate!  " 

"Climate!"  interrupted  ^Mr.  Callythorpe,  "it  is  the 
best  climate  in  the  world;  I  am  an  Englishman,  and  I 
never  abuse  my  country. 

Engliind,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still." 

"  As  to  climate,"  said  Trollolop,  "  there  is  no  climate, 
neither  here  nor  elsewhere.  The  climate  is  in  your  mind, 
the  chair  is  in  your  mind,  and  the  table  too,  though  I 
daresay  you  are  stupid  enough  to  think  the  two  latter  are 
in  the  room;  the  human  mind,  my  dear  Findlater —  " 

"Don't  mind  me,  Trollolop,"  cried  the  baronet,  "I 
can't  bear  your  clever  heads;  give  me  a  good  heart, — 
that's  worth  all  the  heads  in  the  world,  d — n  me  if  it 
is  not!     Eh,  Linden?" 

"Your  good  heart,"  cried  Trollolop,  in  a  passion  (for 
all  your  self-called  philosophers  are  a  little  choleric),  — 
"your  good  heart  is  all  cant  and  nonsense,  there  is  no 
heart  at  all :  we  are  all  mind." 

"  I  '11  be  hanged  if  I  'm  all  mind,"  said  the  baronet, 

"  At  least,"  quoth  Linden,  gravely,  "  no  one  ever 
accused  you  of  it  before." 

"  We  are  all  mind,"  purs\ied  the  reasoner,  —  "  we  are 
all  mind,  un  moulin  a  raisonnement.  Our  ideas  are 
derived  from  two  sources,  sensation  or  memory.  That 
neither  our  thoughts,  nor  passions,  nor  ideas  formed  by 
the  imagination,  exist  without  the  mind,  everybody  will 
allow;*  therefore,  you  see,  the  human  mind  is  —  in 
short,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  but  the  human 
mind !  " 

*  Berkeley  :  Principles  of  Human  Knowledge,  sect.  iii. 


THE   DISOWNED.  219 

"Nothing  could  be  better  demonstrated,"  said 
Clarence. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  quoth  the  baronet. 

"  But  you  do  believe  it,  and  you  must  believe  it," 
cried  TroUolop;  "for,  'the  Supreme  Being  has  im- 
planted within  us  the  principle  of  credulity,'  and  there- 
fore you  do  believe  it." 

"  But  I  don't,"  cried  Sir  Christopher. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  replied  the  metaphysician, 
calmly;  "because  I  must  speak  truth." 

"  Why  must  you,  pray  1  "  said  the  baronet. 

"  Because,"  answered  Trollolop,  taking  snuff,  "  there 
is  a  principle  of  veracity  implanted  in  our  nature." 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  metaphysician,"  said  Clarence,  with 
a  sigh. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so;  for  you  know,  my 
dear  Linden,"  said  Callythorpe,  "that  I  am  your  true 
friend ,  and  I  must  therefore  tell  you  that  you  are  shame- 
fully ignorant.     You  are  not  offended  1  " 

"  Not  at  all!  "  said  Clarence,  trying  to  smile. 

"  And  you,  my  dear  Findlater  "  (turning  to  the  bar- 
onet), "you  know  that  I  wish  you  well, — you  know 
that  I  never  flatter,  I  'm  your  real  friend,  so  you  must 
not  be  angry;  but  you  really  are  not  considered  a 
Solomon." 

"  Mr,  Callythorpe!  "  exclaimed  the  baronet,  in  a  rage 
(the  best-hearted  people  can't  always  bear  truth),  "  what 
do  you  mean  1  " 

"You  must  not  be  angry,  my  good  sir,  —  you  must 
not,  really.  I  can't  help  telling  you  of  your  faults;  for 
I  am  a  true  Briton,  sir,  a  true  Briton,  and  leave  lying  to 
slaves  and  Frenchmen. " 

"  You  are  in  an  error,"  said  Trollolop;  "Frenchmen 
don't  lie,  at  least  not  naturally,  for  in  the  human  mind, 


220  THE   DISOWNED. 

as  I  before  said,  the  Divine  Author  has  implanted  a 
principle  of  veracity  which  —  " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  interrupted  Callythorpc,  very  affection- 
ately, "  you  remind  me  of  what  people  say  of  t/ou." 

"  Memory  may  be  reduced  to  sensation,  since  it  is  only 
a  weaker  sensation,"  quoth  Trollolop;  "  but  proceed." 

"You  know,  Trollolop,"  said  Callythorpe,  in  a  sin- 
gularly endearing  intonation  of  voice, —  "  you  know  that 
I  never  flatter;  flattery  is  unbecoming  a  true  friend, — 
nay,  more,  it  is  unbecoming  a  native  of  our  happy  isles, 
and  people  do  say  of  you  that  you  know  nothing  whatso- 
ever, no,  not  an  iota,  of  all  that  nonsensical,  worthless 
philosophy,  of  which  you  are  always  talking.  Lord 
St.  George  said  the  other  day  '  that  you  were  very  con- 
ceited.'     'No,  not  conceited,'  replied  Dr.  ,  'only 

ignorant;'   so  if  I  were  you,   Trollolop,  I  would  cut 
metaphysics, — you're  not  offended?" 

"  By  no  means,"  cried  Trollolop,  foaming  at  the 
mouth. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  the  good-hearted  Sir  Christopher, 
whose  Avrath  had  now  subsided,  rubbing  his  hands,  — 
"  for  my  part,  I  see  no  good  in  any  of  those  things.  I 
never  read, — never, — and  I  don't  see  how  I'm  a  bit 
the  worse  for  it.  A  good  man,  Linden,  in  my  opinion, 
only  wants  to  do  his  duty,  and  that  is  very  easily  done." 

"  A  good  man !  —  and  what  is  good  "i  "  cried  the  meta- 
physician, triumphantly.  "  Is  it  implanted  within  us? 
Hobbes,  according  to  Reid,  who  is  our  last  and  con- 
sequently best  philosopher,  endeavors  to  demonstrate 
that  there  is  no  difference  between  right  and  wrong." 

"  I  have  no  idea  of  what  you  mean,"  cried  Sir 
Christopher. 

"Idea!"  exclaimed  the  pious  philosopher.  "Sir 
give  me  leave  to  tell  you  that  no  solid  proof  has  ever 


THE   DISOWNED.  221 

been  advanced  of  the  existence  of  ideas ;  they  are  a  mere 
fiction  and  hypothesis.  jSTay,  sir,  'hence  arises  that 
scepticism  which  disgraces  our  philosophy  of  the  mind. ' 
Ideas !  —  Findlater,  you  are  a  sceptic  and  an  idealist. " 

"11"  cried  the  affrighted  baronet ;  "  upon  my  honor 
I  am  no  such  thing.  Everybody  knows  that  I  am  a 
Christian,  and  —  " 

"Ah!  "  interrupted  Callythorpe,  with  a  solemn  look, 
"  everybody  knows  that  you  are  not  one  of  those  horrid 
persons,  —  those  atrocious  deists  and  atheists  and  scep- 
tics from  whom  the  church  and  freedom  of  old  Eng- 
land have  suffered  such  danger.  I  am  a  true  Briton 
of  the  good  old  school;  and  I  confess,  Mr.  Trollolop, 
that  I  do  not  like  to  hear  any  opinions  but  the  right 
ones. " 

"  Eight  ones,  being  only  those  which  Mr.  Callythorpe 
professes,"  said  Clarence. 

"  Exactly  so!  "  rejoined  Mr.  Callythorpe. 

"The  human  mind  — "  commenced  Mr.  Trollolop, 
stirring  the  fire;  when  Clarence,  who  began  to  be  some- 
what tired  of  this  conversation,  rose.  "  You  will  excuse 
me,"  said  he,  "but  I  am  particularly  engaged,  and  it  is 
time  to  dress.  Harrison  will  get  you  tea,  or  whatever 
else  you  are  inclined  for. " 

"  The  human  mind  —  "  renewed  Trollolop,  not  heed- 
ing the  interruption;  and  Clarence  forthwith  left  the 
room. 


222  THE   D1S0W^'ED. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

You  blame  Marcius  for  being  proud.  —  Corio/anug. 

Here  is  another  fellow,  a  marvellous  pretty  hand  at  fashioning  a 
compliment.  —  The  Tanner  of  Tijhtm. 

Thkre  was  a  brilliant  ball  at  Lady  T 's,  a  person- 
age who,  every  one  knows,  did,  in  the  year  17 — ,  give 
the  best  balls,  and  have  the  best-dressed  people  at  them, 
in  London.  It  was  about  half-past  twelve  when  Clar- 
ence, released  from  his  three  friends,  arrived  at  the 
countess's.  When  he  entered,  the  first  thing  which 
struck  him  was  Lord  Borodaile  in  close  conversation 
with  Lady  Flora. 

Clarence  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  then,  saun- 
tering towards  them,  caught  Flora's  eye,  colored,  and 
advanced.  Now,  if  there  was  a  haughty  man  in  Europe, 
it  was  Lord  Borodaile.  He  was  not  proud  of  his  birth 
or  fortune,  but  he  was  proud  of  himself;  and,  next  to 
that  pride,  he  was  proud  of  being  a  gentleman.  He  had 
an  exceeding  horror  of  all  common  people, —  a  Claver- 
house-sort  of  supreme  contempt  to  "  puddle  blood. "  His 
lip  seemed  to  wear  scorn  as  a  garment;  a  lofty  and  stern 
self-admiration,  rather  than  self-love,  sat  upon  his  fore- 
head as  on  a  throne.  He  had,  as  it  were,  an  awe  of 
himself;  his  thoughts  were  so  many  mirrors  of  Viscount 
Borodaile,  dressed  en  clieu.  His  mind  was  a  little  Ver- 
sailles, in  which  se/f  sat  like  Louis  XIV.,  and  saw 
nothing  but  pictures  of  its  self,  .sometimes  as  Jupiter, 
and  sometimes  as  Apollo.  What  marvel,  then,  that 
Lord  Borodaile  was  a  very  impleasant  companion;   for 


THE   DISOWNED.  223 

every  human  'being  he  had  "  something  of  contempt. " 
His  eye  was  always  eloquent  in  disdaining:  to  the  ple- 
beian it  said,  "  You  are  not  a  gentleman;  "  to  the  prince, 
"  You  are  not  Lord  Borodaile." 

Yet,  with  all  this,  he  had  his  good  points.  He  was 
brave  as  a  lion,  strictly  honorable,  and,  though  very 
ignorant  and  very  self-suflncient,  had  that  sort  of  dogged 
good  sense  which  one  very  often  finds  in  men  of  stern 
hearts,  who,  if  they  have  many  prejudices,  have  little 
feeling  to  overcome. 

Very  stiffly  and  very  haughtily  did  Lord  Borodaile 
draw  up  when  Clarence  approached  and  addressed  Lady 
Flora;  much  more  stiffly  and  much  more  haughtily 
did  he  return,  though  with  old-fashioned  precision  of 
courtesy,  Clarence's  bow,  when  Lady  Westborough  in- 
troduced them  to  each  other.  Not  that  this  hauteur 
was  intended  as  a  particular  affront;  it  was  only  the 
agreeability  of  his  lordship's  general  manner. 

"  Are  you  engaged  ?  "  said  Clarence  to  Flora. 

"  I  am,  at  present,  to  Lord  Borodaile." 

"  After  him ,  may  I  hope  %  " 

Lady  Flora  nodded  assent,  and  disappeared  with  Lord 
Borodaile. 

His  Koyal  Highness  the  Duke  of  came  up  to 

Lady  Westborough;  and  Clarence,  with  a  smiling  coun- 
tenance and  an  absent  heart,  plunged  into  the  crowd. 
There  he  met  Lord  Aspeden,  in  conversation  with  the 
Earl  of  Holdenworth,  one  of  the  administration. 

"Ah,  Linden!"  said  the  diplomatist,  "let  me  intro- 
duce you  to  Lord  Holdenworth,  — a  clever  yoimg  man, 
my  dear  lord,  and  plays  the  flute  beautifully."  With 
this  eulogium.  Lord  Aspeden  glided  away;  and  Lord 
Holdenworth,  after  some  conversation  with  Linden,  hon- 
ored him  by  an  invitation  to  dinner  the  next  day. 


224  TIIK   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

'T  is  true  his  uature  may  with  faults  abound  ^ 
But  who  will  cavil  wheu  the  heart  is  sound  ? 

Sticpiien  Montagce. 

Dum  vitant  stulti  vitia,  in  contraria  curruut.i — Hor. 

The  next  day  Sir  Christopher  Findlater  called  on 
Clarence.     "  Let  us  lounge  into  the  park,"  said  he. 

"  With  pleasure,"  replied  Clarence;  and  into  the  park 
they  lounged. 

By  the  way  they  met  a  crowd,  who  were  hurrying  a 
man  to  prison.  The  good-hearted  Sir  Christopher 
stopped :  "  Who  is  that  poor  fellow  ?  "  said  he. 

"  It  is  the  celebrated  "  (in  England  all  criminals  are 
celebrated.  Thurtell  was  a  hero,  Thistlewood  a  patriot, 
and  Fauntleroy  was  discovered  to  be  exactly  like  Buona- 
parte! ), — "  it  is  the  celebrated  robber,  John  Jefl'eries, 
who  broke  into  Mrs.  Wilson's  house,  and  cut  the  throats 
of  herself  and  her  husband,  wounded  the  maid-servant, 
and  split  the  child's  skull  with  the  poker." 

Clarence  pressed  forward :  "  I  have  seen  that  man  be- 
fore," thought  he.  He  looked  again,  and  recognized 
the  face  of  the  robber  who  had  escaped  from  Talbot's 
house,  on  the  eventful  niglit  which  had  made  Clarence's 
fortune.  It  was  a  strongly-marked  and  rather  handsome 
countenance,  wliich  would  not  be  easily  forgotten;  and 
a  single  circumstance  of  excitement  will  stamp  features 
on  the  memory  as  deeply  as  the  commonplace  inter- 
course of  years. 

^  The  foolish  while  avoiding  vice  run  into  the  opposite  extremes. 


THE    DISOWNED.  225 

"John  JefFeries!"  exclaimed  the  baronet,  "let  us 
come  away. 

"Linden,"  continued  Sir  Christopher,  "that  fellow 
was  my  servant  once.  He  robbed  me  to  some  consid- 
erable extent.  I  caught  him.  He  appealed  to  my 
heart,  and  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,  that  was  irresis- 
tible, so  I  let  him  off.  Who  could  have  thought  he 
would  have  turned  out  so  1  "  And  the  baronet  proceeded 
to  eulogize  his  own  good-nature,  by  which  it  is  just 
necessary  to  remark  that  one  miscreant  had  been  saved 
for  a  few  years  from  transportation,  in  order  to  rob  and 
murder  ad  libitum,  and  having  fulfilled  the  office  of  a 
common  pest,  to  suffer  on  the  gallows  at  last.  What  a 
fine  thing  it  is  to  have  a  good  heart! 

Both  our  gentlemen  now  sunk  into  a  reverie,  from 
which  they  were  awakened,  at  the  entrance  of  the  park, 
by  a  young  man  in  rags,  who,  with  a  piteous  tone,  sup- 
plicated charity.  Clarence,  who,  to  his  honor  be  it 
spoken,  had  spent  an  allotted  and  considerable  part  of 
his  income  in  jvidicious  and  laborious  benevolence,  and 
had  read  a  little  of  political  morals,  then  beginning  to 
be  imderstood,  walked  on.  The  good-hearted  baronet 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  gave  the  beggar  half 
a  guinea,  by  which  a  young,  strong  man,  who  had  only 
just  commenced  the  trade,  was  confirmed  in  his  im- 
position for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and,  instead  of  the 
useful  support,  became  the  pernicious  encumbrance  of 
society. 

Sir  Christopher  had  now  recovered  his  spirits. 
"  What 's  like  a  good  action  ?  "  said  he  to  Clarence,  with 
a  swelling  breast. 

The  park  was  crowded  to  excess;  our  loungers  were 
joined  by  Lord  St.  George.  His  lordship  was  a  stanch 
Tory.     He  could  not  endure  Wilkes,  liberty,  or  general 

VOL.  I.  — 15 


226  THE   DISOWNED. 

education.  He  launched  out  against  the  enlightenment 
of  domestics.^ 

"  What  has  made  you  so  bitter?  "  said  Sir  Christoplier. 

"  ^ly  valet,"  cried  Lord  St.  George,  —  "he  has  in- 
vented a  new  toasting-fork,  is  going  to  take  out  a  patent, 
make  his  fortune,  and  leave  me  ;  that 's  what  I  call  in- 
gratitude, Sir  Christopher;  for  I  ordered  his  wages  to  be 
raised  live  pounds  but  last  year." 

"  It  was  very  ungrateful,"  said  the  ironical  Clarence. 

"  Very !  "  reiterated  the  good-hearted  Sir  Christoplier. 

"  You  cannot  recommend  me  a  valet,  Fimllater,"  re- 
newed his  lordship,  "  a  good,  honest,  sensible  fellow, 
who  can  neither  read  nor  write  1  " 

"N-o-o;  that  is  to  say,  yes!  I  can;  ni}'-  old  ser- 
vant, Collard,  is  out  of  place,  and  is  as  ignorant  as  — 
as  —  " 

"I  —  or  you  are  1  "  said  Lord  St.  George,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Precisely,"  replied  the  baronet. 

"  Well,  then,  I  take  your  recommendation;  send  him 
to  me  to-morrow  at  twelve. " 

"  I  will,"  said  Sir  Christopher. 

"My  dear  Findiater,"  cried  Clarence,  when  Lord  St. 
George  was  gone;  "  did  you  not  tell  me,  some  time  ago, 
that  Collard  was  a  great  rascal,  and  very  intimate  with 
Jefferies  1  —  and  now  you  recommend  him  to  Lord  St. 
George !  " 

"Hush,  liush,  hush!  "  said  the  baronet;  "he  Avas  a 
great  rogue  to  be  sure;  ])ut,  poor  fellow,  he  came  to  me 

1  The  ancestors  of  our  present  footmen,  if  we  may  believe  Sir 
William  Temjtle,  seem  to  have  been  to  tlie  full  as  intellectual  as 
their  descendants.  "  I  have  had,"  observes  the  philosopliic  states- 
man, "  several  servants  far  gone  in  divinity,  others  in  poetry,  have 
known  in  the  faniilios  of  some  friends,  a  keeper  deep  in  tlie  Uosi- 
crucian  mysteries,  aud  a  laundress  linn  iu  those  of  Epicurus." 


THE   DISOWNED.  227 

yesterday,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  said  he  should 
starve  if  I  would  not  give  him  a  character;  so  what 
could  I  do?" 

"  At  least,  tell  Lord  St.  George  the  truth,"  observed 
Clarence. 

"But  then  Lord  St.  George  would  not  take  him!" 
rejoined  the  good-hearted  Sir  Christopher,  with  forcible 
naivete.  "  Xo,  no,  Linden,  we  must  not  be  so  hard- 
hearted: we  must  forgive  and  forget;"  and,  so  saying, 
the  baronet  threw  out  his  chest  with  the  conscious  ex- 
ultation of  a  man  who  has  uttered  a  noble  sentiment. 
The  moral  of  this  little  history  is,  that  Lord  St.  George, 
having  been  pillaged  "  through  tliick  and  thin, "  as  the 
proverb  has  it,  for  two  years,  at  last  missed  a  gold  watch, 
and  Monsieur  Collard  finished  his  career  as  his  exem- 
plary tutor,  Mr.  John  Jefferies,  had  done  before  him. 
Ah !  what  a  fine  thing  it  is  to  have  a  good  heart. 

But  to  return:  just  as  our  wanderers  had  arrived  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  park.  Lady  Westborough  and  her 
daughter  passed  them.  Clarence,  excusing  himself  to 
his  friend,  hastened  towards  them,  and  was  soon  occu- 
pied in  saying  the  prettiest  things  in  the  world  to  the 
prettiest  person ,  at  least  in  his  eyes ;  while  Sir  Chris- 
topher, having  done  as  much  mischief  as  a  good  heart 
well  can  do  in  a  walk  of  an  hour,  returned  home  to 
write  a  long  letter  to  his  mother,  against  "  learning,  and 
all  such  nonsense,  which  only  served  to  blunt  the  affec- 
tions and  harden  the  heart." 

"  Admirable  young  man!  "  cried  the  mother,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "  A  good  heart  is  better  than  all 
the  heads  in  the  world." 

Amen. 


228  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"  Make  way,  Sir  Geoffrey  Peveril,  or  you  will  compel  me  to  do 
that  I  may  be  sorry  for ! " 

"You  shall  make  no  way  here  but  at  your  peril,"  said  Sir 
Geoffrey ;  "  this  is  my  ground."  —  Peveril  of  the  Peak. 

One  night,  on  returning  home  from  a  party  at  Lady 
Westborough's,  in  Hanover  Square,  Clarence  observed 
a  man  before  him  walking  with  an  uneven  and  agitated 
step.  His  right  hand  was  clenched,  and  he  frequently 
raised  it  as  with  a  sudden  impulse,  and  struck  fiercely 
as  if  at  some  imagined  enemy. 

The  stranger  slackened  his  pace.  Clarence  passed 
him,  and  turning  round  to  satisfy  the  idle  curiosity 
which  the  man's  eccentric  gestures  had  provoked,  his 
eye  met  a  dark,  lowering,  iron  countenance,  which,  de- 
spite the  lapse  of  four  years,  ho  recognized  on  the  mo- 
ment, — ■  it  was  Wolfe,  the  republican. 

Clarence  moved,  involuntarily,  with  a  quicker  step; 
but  in  a  few  minutes,  Wolfe,  who  was  vehemently  talk- 
ing to  himself,  once  more  passed  him :  the  direction  he 
took  was  also  Clarence's  way  homeward,  and  he  there- 
fore followed  the  republican,  though  at  some  slight  dis- 
tance, and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  A  gentle- 
man on  foot,  apparently  returning  from  a  party,  met 
Wolfe,  and,  with  an  air,  half  haughty,  half  unconscious, 
took  the  wall;  though,  according  to  old-fashioned  rules 
of  street  courtesy,  he  was  on  the  wrong  side  for  asserting 
the  claim.  The  stern  republican  started,  drew  himself 
up  to  his  full  height,  and  sturdily  and  doggedly  placed 


THE   DISOWNED.  229 

himself  directly  in  the  way  of  the  unjust  claimant. 
Clarence  was  now  nearly  opposite  to  the  two,  and  saw 
all  that  was  going  on. 

With  a  motion,  a  little  rude  and  very  contemptuous, 
the  passenger  attempted  to  put  Wolfe  aside,  and  win  his 
path.  Little  did  he  know  of  the  unyielding  nature  he 
had  to  do  with ;  the  next  instant  the  republican,  with  a 
strong  hand,  forced  him  from  the  pavement  into  the 
very  kennel ,  and  silently  and  coldly  continued  his  way. 

The  wrath  of  the  discomfited  passenger  was  vehemently 
kindled. 

"  Insolent  dog,"  cried  he,  in  a  loud  and  arrogant  tone, 
"your  baseness  is  your  protection."  Wolfe  turned 
rapidly,  and  made  but  two  strides  before  he  was  once 
more  by  the  side  of  his  defeated  opponent. 

"What  did  you  say?  "  he  asked,  in  his  low,  deep, 
hoarse  voice. 

Clarence  stopped.  "  There  will  be  mischief  done 
here,"  thought  he,  as  he  called  to  mind  the  stern  tem- 
per of  the  republican. 

"Merely,"  said  the  other,  struggling  with  his  rage, 
"  that  it  is  not  for  men  of  my  rank  to  avenge  the  insults 
offered  us  by  those  of  yours !  " 

"  Your  rank,"  said  Wolfe,  bitterly  retorting  the  con- 
tempt of  the  stranger,  in  a  tone  of  the  loftiest  disdain, 

—  "your  rank,  poor  changeling!  And  what  are  you, 
that  you  should  lord  it  over  me?  Are  your  limbs 
stronger,  your  muscles  firmer,  your  proportions  juster, 
your  mind  acuter,  your  conscience  clearer?     Fool,  fool, 

—  go  home  and  measure  yourself  with  lackies !  " 

The  republican  ceased,  and  pushing  the  stranger 
aside,  turned  slowly  aAvay.  But  this  last  insult  enraged 
the  passenger  beyond  all  prudence.  Before  Wolfe  had 
proceeded  two  paces,  he  muttered  a  desperate  but  brief 


230  THE   DISOWNED. 

oath,  and  struck  the  reformer  with  a  strength  so  much 
beyond  what  his  figure  (which  was  small  and  slight) 
appeared  to  possess,  that  the  powerful  and  gaunt  frame 
of  Wolfo  recoiled  backward  several  steps,  and  had  it 
not  been  for  the  iron  railing  of  the  neighboring  area, 
would  have  fallen  to  the  ground. 

Clarence  pressed  forward :  the  face  of  the  rash  aggressor 
was  turned  towards  him;  the  features  were  Lord  Boro- 
daile's.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  make  this  discovery, 
before  Wolfe  had  recovered  himself.  With  a  wild  and 
savage  cry,  rather  than  exclamation,  he  threw  himself 
upon  his  antagonist,  twined  his  sinewy  arms  round  the 
frame  of  the  struggling,  but  powerless,  nobleman,  raised 
him  in  the  air,  with  the  easy  strength  of  a  man  lifting 
a  child,  held  him  aloft  for  one  moment,  with  a  bitter 
and  scornful  laugh  of  wrathfvd  derision,  and  then  dashed 
him  to  the  ground,  and,  planting  his  foot  upon  Boro- 
daile's  breast,  said,  — • 

"  So  shall  it  be  with  all  of  you:  there  shall  be  but 
one  instant  between  your  last  offence  and  your  first  but 
final  debasement.  Lie  there!  it  is  your  proper  place! 
By  the  only  law  which  you  yourself  acknowledge,  the 
law  which  gives  the  right  divine  to  the  strongest,  if  you 
stir  limb  or  muscle,  I  will  crush  the  breath  from  your 
body!" 

But  Clarence  was  now  by  the  side  of  Wolfe,  a  new 
and  more  powerful  opponent. 

"  Look  you,"  said  he:  "  you  have  received  an  insult, 
and  you  have  done  justice  yourself.  I  condemn  the 
offence ,  and  quarrel  not  with  y on  for  the  punishment ;  but 
that  punishment  is  now  past.    Remove  your  foot,  or  —  " 

"  What!  "  shouted  Wolfe,  fiercely,  his  lurid  and  vin- 
dictive eye  flashing  with  the  released  tiro  of  long-pent 
and  cherished  passions. 


THE   DISOWNED.  231 

"  Or,"  answered  Clarence,  calmly,  "  I  will  hinder  you 
from  committing  murder." 

At  that  instant  the  watchman's  voice  was  heard,  and 
the  night's  guardian  himself  was  seen  hastening  from  the 
far  end  of  the  street  towards  the  place  of  contest. 
Whether  this  circumstance,  or  Clarence's  answer,  some- 
what changed  the  current  of  the  republican's  thoughts, 
or  whether  his  anger,  suddenly  raised,  was  now  as 
suddenly  subsiding,  it  is  not  easy  to  decide;  but  he 
slowly  and  deliberately  moved  his  foot  from  the  breast 
of  his  baffled  foe,  and,  bending  down,  seemed  endeavor- 
ing to  ascertain  the  mischief  he  had  done.  Lord  Boro- 
daile  was  perfectly  insensible. 

"  You  have  killed  him!  "  cried  Clarence,  in  a  voice  of 
horror,  "  but  you  shall  not  escape ;  "  and  he  placed  a 
desperate  and  nervous  hand  on  the  republican. 

"  Stand  off,"  said  Wolfe,  "  my  blood  is  up!  I  would 
not  do  more  violence  to-night  than  I  have  done.  Stand 
off!  the  man  moves;  see!" 

And  Lord  Borodaile,  uttering  a  long  sigh,  and  at- 
tempting to  rise,  Clarence  released  his  hold  of  the  repub- 
lican, and  bent  down  to  assist  the  fallen  nobleman. 
Meanwhile,  Wolfe,  muttering  to  himself,  turned  from 
the  spot,  and  strode  haughtily  away. 

The  watchman  now  came  up,  and,  with  his  aid, 
Clarence  raised  Lord  Borodaile.  Bruised,  stunned, 
half  insensible  as  he  was,  that  personage  lost  none  of 
his  characteristic  stateliness;  he  shook  off  the  watch- 
man's arm,  as  if  there  was  contamination  in  the  touch; 
and  his  countenance,  still  menacing  and  defying  in  ita 
expression,  turned  abruptly  towards  Clarence,  as  if  he 
yet  expected  to  meet,  and  struggle  with  a  foe. 

"  How  are  you,  my  lord  ?  "  said  Linden ;  "  not  severely 
hurt,  I  trust  ?  " 


232  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  Well,  quite  well,"  cried  Borodaile.  "  'Mr.  Linden, 
I  think?  —  I  thank  you  cordially  for  your  assistance; 
but  the  dog,  —  the  rascal,  — where  is  he?  " 

"  Gone,"  said  Clarence. 

"Gone!  Where,  wliere  ? "  cried  Borodaile;  "that 
living  man  should  insult  me,  and  yet  escape!  " 

"  Which  way  did  the  fellow  go  1  "  said  the  watch- 
man, anticipative  of  half  a  crown.  "  I  will  run  after 
him  in  a  trice,  your  honor,  —  /warrant  I  nab  him." 

"  Xo  —  no,"  said  Borodaile,  haughtily;  "I  leave  my 
quarrels  to  no  man ;  if  I  could  not  master  him  myself, 
no  one  else  shall  do  it  for  me.  Mr.  Linden,  excuse  me, 
b\it  T  am  perfectly  recovered,  and  can  walk  very  well 
without  your  polite  assistance.  Mr.  Watchman,  I  am 
obliged  to  you;  there  is  a  guinea  to  reward  your 
trouble. " 

With  these  words,  intended  as  a  farewell,  the  proud 
patrician,  smothering  his  pain,  bowed  with  extreme 
courtesy  to  Clarence,  again  thanked  him,  and  walked 
on  imaided  and  alone. 

"  He  is  a  game  blood,"  said  the  Avatchman,  pocketing 
the  guinea. 

"  He  is  worthy  his  name,"  thought  Clarence;  "  though 
he  was  in  the  wrong,  my  heart  yearns  to  him." 


THE   DISOWNED.  233 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

Things  wear  a  vizard  which  I  thiuk  to  like  not. 

Tanner  of  Tyburn, 

Clarexce,  from  that  night,  appeared  to  have  formed  a 
sudden  attachment  to  Lord  Borodaile.  He  took  every 
opportunity  of  cultivating  his  intimacy,  and  invariably 
treated  him  with  a  degree  of  consideration  which  his 
knowledge  of  the  world  told  him  was  well  calculated 
to  gain  the  goodwill  of  his  haughty  and  arrogant  ac- 
quaintance;  but  all  this  was  ineffectual  in  conquering 
Borodaile's  coldness  and  reserve.  To  have  been  once 
seen  in  a  humiliating  and  degrading  situation  is  quite 
sufficient  to  make  a  proud  man  hate  the  spectator,  and, 
with  the  confusion  of  all  prejudiced  minds,  to  transfer 
the  sore  remembrance  of  the  event  to  the  association  of 
the  witness.  Lord  Borodaile,  though  always  ceremo- 
niously civil,  Avas  immovably  distant,  and  avoided,  as 
well  as  he  was  able,  Clarence's  insinuating  approaches 
and  address.  To  add  to  his  indisposition  to  increase 
his  acquaintance  with  Linden ,  a  friend  of  his,  a  captain 
in  tlie  Guards,  once  asked  him  who  that  Mr.  Linden 
was;  and  on  his  lordship  replying  that  he  did  no> 
know,  INIr.  Percy  BoIjus,  the  son  of  a  wine-merchant, 
though  the  nephew  of  a  duke,  rejoined,  "Nobody  aoes 
know. " 

"  Insolent  intruder!  "  thought  Lord  Borodaile;  "  a  man 
whom  nobody  knows  to  make  such  advances  to  me  !  " 

A  still  greater  cause  of  dislike  to  Clarence  arose  from 
jealousy.     Ever  since  the  first  night  of  his  acquaintance 


234  THE    DISOWNED. 

with  Lady  Flora,  Lord  Borodaile  had  paid  her  uncoasing 
attention.  In  good  earnest,  he  was  greatly  struck  by  her 
beauty,  and  had  for  the  last  year  meditated  the  necessity 
of  presenting  the  world  with  a  Lady  Horodaile.  Now, 
though  his  lordship  did  look  upon  himself  in  as  favor- 
able a  light  as  a  man  well  can  do,  yet  he  could  not  but 
own  that  Clarence  was  very  handsome,  had  a  devilish 
gentleman-like  air,  talked  with  a  better  grace  than  the 
generality  of  young  men,  and  danced  to  perfection.  "  I 
detest  that  fellow!  "  said  Lord  Borodaile,  involuntarily 
and  aloud,  as  tliese  unwilling  truths  forced  themselves 
upon  his  mind. 

"  Whom  do  you  detest  1  "  asked  Mr.  Percy  Bobus, 
who  was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  Lord  Borodaile's  drawing- 
room,  and  admiring  a  pair  of  red-heeled  shoes  which 
decorated  his  feet. 

"  That  puppy.  Linden!  "  said  Lord  Borodaile,  adjust- 
ing his  cravat. 

"He  is  a  deuced  puppy,  certainly!"  rejoined  Mr. 
Percy  Bobus,  turning  round  in  order  to  contemplate 
more  exactly  the  shape  of  his  right  shoe.  "  I  can't  bear 
conceit,  Borodaile." 

"Nor  I:  I  abhor  it,  —  it  is  so  d — d  disgusting!" 
replied  Lord  Borodaile,  leaning  his  chin  upon  his  two 
hands,  and  looking  full  into  the  glass.  "  Do  you  use 
MacNeile's  divine  pomatum?" 

"  No,  it 's  too  hard ;  I  get  mine  from  Paris.  Sliall  I 
send  you  some  ?  " 

"  Do,"  said  Lord  Borodaile. 

"Mr.  Linden,  my  lord,"  said  the  servant,  throwing 
open  the  door;  and  Clarence  entered. 

"  I  am  very  fortunate,"  said  he,  with  that  smile  which 
so  few  ever  resisted,  "  to  find  you  at  home.  Lord  Boro- 
daile; but  as  the  day  was  wet,  I  thought  I  should  have 


THE   DISOWNED.  235 

some  chance  of  that  pleasure;  I  therefore  wrapped  my- 
self up  in  my  roquelaure  and  here  I  am!  " 

Now,  nothing  could  be  more  diplomatic  than  the  com- 
pliment of  choosing  a  wet  day  for  a  visit,  and  exposing 
one's  self  to  the  "pitiless  shower,"  for  the  greater 
probability  of  finding  the  person  visited  at  home.  Not 
so  thought  Lord  Borodaile;  he  drew  himself  up,  bowed 
very  solemnly,  and  said,  with  cold  gravity,  — 

"  You  are  very  obliging,  Mr.  Linden." 

Clarence  colored,  and  bit  his  lip  as  he  seated  himself. 
Mr.  Percy  Bobus,  with  true  insular  breeding,  took  up 
the  newspaper. 

"I  think  I  saw  you  at  Lady  C.'s  last  night,"  said 
Clarence ;  "  did  you  stay  there  long  1  " 

"No,  indeed,"  answered  Borodaile;  "I  hate  her 
parties." 

"  One  does  meet  such  odd  people  there,"  observed  Mr. 
Percy  Bobus ;  "  creatures  one  never  sees  anywhere  else. " 

"I  hear,"  said  Clarence,  who  never  abused  any  one, 
even  the  givers  of  stupid  parties,  if  he  could  help  it,  and 
therefore  thought  it  best  to  change  the  conversation ,  — 
"  I  hear,  Lord  Borodaile,  that  some  hunters  of  yours  are 
to  be  sold.     I  purpose  being  a  bidder  for  Thunderbolt. " 

"I  have  a  horse  to  sell  you,  Mr.  Linden,"  cried  Mr. 
Percy  Bobus,  springing  from  the  sofa  into  civility;  "  a 
superb  creature." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Clarence,  laughing;  "but  I  can 
only  afford  to  buy  one,  and  I  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to 
Thunderbolt." 

Lord  Borodaile,  whose  manners  were  very  antiquated 
in  their  affability,  bowed.  Mr.  Bobus  sank  back  into 
his  sofa  and  resumed  the  paper. 

A  pause  ensued.  Clarence  was  chilled  in  spite  of 
himself.     Lord  Borodaile  played  with  a  paper-cutter. 


236  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  Have  you  been  to  Lady  Westborough's  lately  ?  " 
said  Clarence,  breaking  silence. 

"  I  was  there  last  night,"  replied  Lord  Borodaile. 

"  Indeed!  "  cried  Clarence.  "  I  wonder  I  did  not  see 
you  there,  for  I  dined  with  them." 

Lord  Borodaile 's  hair  curled  of  itself.  "  He  dined 
there,  and  I  only  asked  in  the  evening,"  thought  he; 
but  his  sarcastic  temper  suggested  a  very  diiferent  reply. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  elevating  his  eyebrows,  "  Lady  West- 
borough  told  me  she  had  had  some  people  to  dinner, 
whom  she  had  been  obliged  to  ask.  Bobus,  is  that  the 
*  Public  Advertiser  '  ?  See  whether  that  d— d  fellow 
Junius  has  been  writing  any  more  of  his  venomous 
letters. " 

Clarence  was  not  a  man  apt  to  take  offence,  but  he 
felt  his  bile  rise,  — "  It  will  not  do  to  show  it,"  thought 
he;  so  he  made  some  further  remark  in  a  jesting  vein; 
and  after  a  very  ill-sustained  conversation  of  some 
minutes  longer,  rose,  apparently  in  the  best  humor 
possible,  and  departed,  with  a  solemn  intention  never 
again  to  enter  the  house.  Thence  he  went  to  Lady 
Westborough's. 

The  marchioness  was  in  her  boudoir.  Clarence  was, 
as  usual,  admitted;  for  Lady  Westborough  loved  amuse- 
ment above  all  things  in  the  world,  and  Clarence  had 
the  art  of  affording  it  better  than  any  young  man  of  her 
acquaintance.  On  entering,  he  saw  Lady  Flora  hastily 
retreating  through  an  opposite  door.  She  turned  her 
face  towards  him  for  one  moment,  —  that  moment  was 
sufficient  to  freeze  his  blood ;  the  largo  tears  were  roll- 
ing down  her  cheeks,  which  were  as  white  as  death,  and 
the  expression  of  those  features,  usually  so  laughing  and 
joyous,  was  that  of  utter  and  ineffable  despair. 

Lady  Westborough  was  as  lively,   as  bland,   and  as 


THE   DISOWNED.  237 

agreeable  as  ever;  but  Clarence  thought  he  detected 
something  restrained  and  embarrassed  lurking  beneath 
all  the  graces  of  her  exterior  manner;  and  the  single 
glance  he  had  caught  of  the  pale  and  altered  face  of 
Lady  Flora  was  not  calculated  to  reassure  his  mind  or 
animate  his  spirits.  His  visit  was  short;  when  he  left 
the  room,  he  lingered  for  a  few  moments  in  the  ante- 
chamber, in  the  hope  of  again  seeing  Lady  Flora. 
While  thus  loitering,  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of  Lady 
Westborough's  voice:  "When  Mr.  Linden  calls  again, 
you  have  my  orders  never  to  admit  him  into  this  room; 
he  will  be  shown  into  the  drawing-room." 

With  a  hasty  step  and  a  burning  cheek  Clarence 
quitted  the  house,  and  hurried,  first  to  his  solitary  apart- 
ments, and  thence,  impatient  of  loneliness,  to  the  peace- 
ful retreat  of  his  benefactor. 


238  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

A  maiden's  thoughts  do  check  my  trembling  hand.  —  Drattow. 

There  is  something  very  delightful  in  turning  from 
the  unquietness  and  agitation,  the  fever,  the  ambition, 
the  harsh  and  worldly  realities  of  man's  character,  to  the 
gentle  and  deep  recesses  of  woman's  more  secret  heart. 
Within  her  musings  is  a  realm  of  haunted  and  fairy 
thought,  to  which  the  things  of  this  turbid  and  troubled 
life  have  no  entrance.  What  to  her  are  the  changes  of 
state ,  the  rivalries  and  contentions  which  form  the  staple 
of  our  existence  ?  For  her  there  is  an  intense  and  fond 
philosophy,  before  whose  eye  substances  flit  and  fade 
like  shadows,  and  shadows  grow  glowingly  into  truth. 
Her  soul's  creations  are  not  as  the  moving  and  mortal 
images  seen  in  the  common  day:  they  are  things,  like 
spirits  steeped  in  the  dim  moonlight,  heard  when  all 
else  are  still,  and  busy  when  earth's  laborers  are  at  rest. 
They  are 

Such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  their  little  life 

Is  rounded  by  a  sleep. 

Hers  is  the  real  and  uncentred  poetry  of  being,  which 
pervades  and  surrounds  her  as  with  an  air,  which  peoples 
her  visions  and  animates  her  love,  which  shrinks  from 
earth  into  itself,  and  finds  marvel  and  meditation  in  all 
that  it  beholds  within,  and  which  spreads  even  over  the 
heaven  in  whose  faith  she  so  ardently  believes,  the 
mystery  and  the  tenderness  of  romance. 


THE   DISOWNED.  239 

LETTER   I. 

FROM   LADY   FLORA   ARDENNE    TO    MISS   ELEANOR   TREVANION. 

You  say  that  I  have  not  written  to  you  so  punctually  of  late 
as  I  used  to  do  Lei'ore  I  came  to  London,  and  you  impute  my 
negligence  to  the  gayeties  and  pleasures  by  which  I  am  sur- 
rounded. Eh  bien  !  my  dear  Eleanor,  could  you  have  thought 
of  a  better  excuse  for  me  ?  You  know  how  fond  we  —  ay, 
dearest,  you  as  well  as  I  —  used  to  be  of  dancing,  and  how 
earnestly  we  were  wont  to  anticipate  those  children's  balls  at 
my  uncle's,  which  were  the  only  ones  we  were  ever  permitted 
to  attend.  I  found  a  stick  the  other  day  on  which  I  had  cut 
seven  notches,  significant  of  seven  days  more  to  the  next  ball, 

—  we  reckoned  time  b}'  balls  then,  and  danced  chronologically. 
Well,  my  dear  Eleanor,  here  I  am  now,  brought  out,  tolerably 
well-behaved,  only  not  dignified  enough,  according  to  mamma, 

—  as  fond  of  laughing,  talking,  and  dancing  as  ever;  and  yet, 
do  you  know,  a  ball,  though  still  very  delightful,  is  far  from 
being  the  most  important  event  in  creation ;  its  anticipation 
does  not  keep  me  awake  of  a  night  ;  and,  what  is  more  to  the 
purpose,  its  recollection  does  not  make  me  lock  up  my  writing- 
desk,  burn  my  portefeuille,  and  forget  you,  all  of  which  you 
seem  to  imagine  it  has  been  able  to  effect. 

No,  dearest  Eleanor,  you  are  mistaken  ;  for  were  she  twice 
as  giddy,  and  ten  times  as  volatile  as  she  is,  your  own  Flora 
could  never,  never  forget  you,  nor  the  happy  hours  we  have 
spent  together,  nor  the  pretty  goldfinches  we  had  in  common, 
nor  the  little  Scotch  duets  we  used  to  sing  together,  nor  our 
longings  to  change  them  into  Italian,  nor  our  disappointment 
when  we  did  so,  nor  our  laughter  at  Signior  Shrikalini,  nor 
our  tears  when  poor,  darling  Bijou  died.  And  do  you  remem- 
ber, dearest,  the  charming  green  lawn  where  we  used  to  play 
together,  and  plan  tricks  for  your  governess  ?  She  was  very, 
very  cross  ;  though,  I  think,  we  were  a  little  to  blame  too. 
However,  I  was  much  the  worst !  And  pray,  Eleanor,  don't 
you  remember  how  we  used  to  like  being  called  pretty,  and 
told  of  the  conquests  we  should  make  !     Do  you  like  all  that 


240  THE    DISOWNED. 

now  ?  For  my  part,  I  am  tired  of  it,  —  at  least  from  the  gen- 
erality of  one's  flatterers. 

Ah  !  Eleanor,  or  "  heigho!  "  as  the  young  ladies  in  novels 
write,  do  you  remember  how  jealous  I  was  of  you  at  — '• — ,  and 
how  spiteful  I  was,  and  how  you  were  an  angel,  and  bore  with 
me,  and  kissed  me,  and  told  me  that  —  that  I  had  notliing  to 
fear  ?     Well,  Clar — ,  I  mean  Mr.  Linden,  is  now  in  town,  and 

so  popular,  and  so  admired !     I  wish  we  were  at again, 

for  there  we  saw  him  every  day,  and  now  we  don't  meet  more 
than  three  times  a  week;  and  though  I  like  hearing  him  praised 
above  all  things,  yet  I  feel  very  uncomfortable  when  that 
praise  comes  from  very,  very  pretty  women.     1  wish  we  were 

at again  I     Mamma,  who  is  looking  more  beautiful  than 

ever,  is  very  kind  !  She  says  nothing,  to  be  sure,  but  she  must 
see  how  —  that  is  to  say  —  she  must  know  that  —  that  I  —  I 
mean  that  Clarence  is  very  attentive  to  me,  and  that  I  blush 
and  look  exceedingl}'  silly  whenever  he  is  ;  and,  therefore,  I 
suppose  that  whenever  Clarence  thinks  fit  to  ask  me,  I  shall 
not  be  under  the  necessity  of  getting  up  at  six  o'clock,  and 
travelling  to  Gretna  Green,  through  that  odious  North  Road, 
up  the  Highgate  Hill,  and  over  Finchley  Common. 

"But  when  will  he  ask  you?"  My  dearest  Eleanor,  that 
is  more  than  I  can  say.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  there  is  some- 
thing about  Linden  which  I  cannot  thoroughly  understand. 
They  say  he  is  nephew  and  heir  to  the  Mr.  Tall)ot  whom  you 
may  have  heard  papa  talk  of ;  but  if  so,  why  the  hints,  the 
insinuations,  of  not  being  what  he  seems,  which  Clarence  per- 
petually throws  out,  and  which  only  excite  my  interest  with- 
out gratifying  my  curiosity  ?  "  It  is  not,"  he  has  said,  more 
than  once,  "  as  an  obscure  adventurer  that  I  will  claim  your 
love  : "  and  if  I  venture,  which  is  very  seLlom  (for  I  am  a 
little  afraid  of  him),  to  question  his  meaning,  he  either  sinks 
into  utter  silence,  for  which,  if  I  had  loved  according  to  book, 
and  not  so  naturally,  I  should  be  very  angry  with  him,  or 
twist  his  words  into  another  signification,  such  as  that  he 
would  not  claim  me  till  he  had  become  something  higher  and 
nobler  than  he  is  now.  Alas,  my  dear  Eleanor,  it  takes  a  long 
time  to  make  an  ambassador  out  of  an  attache. 


THE   DISOWNED.  241 

See  now  if  you  reproached  me  justly  with  scanty  correspon- 
dences. If  I  write  a  line  more,  I  must  begin  a  new  sheet,  and 
that  will  be  beyond  the  power  of  a  frank,  —  a  thing  which 
Avould,  I  know,  break  the  heart  of  your  dear,  good,  generous, 
but  a  little  too  prudent  aunt,  and  irrevocably  ruin  me  in  her 
esteem.     So  God  bless  you,  dearest  Eleanor,  and  believe  me 

most  affectionately  yours, 

Flora  Ardenne. 

LETTER  II. 

FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Prat,  dearest  Eleanor,  does  that  good  aunt  of  yours  —  now, 
don't  frown,  I  am  not  going  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  her  — 
ever  take  a  liking  to  young  gentlemen  whom  you  detest,  and 
insist  upon  the  fallacy  of  your  opinion,  and  the  unerring  recti- 
tude of  hers  ?  If  so,  you  can  pity  and  comprehend  my  grief. 
Mamma  has  formed  quite  an  attachment  to  a  very  disagreeable 
person  !  He  is  Lord  Borodaile,  the  eldest,  and,  I  believe,  the 
only  son  of  Lord  Ulswater.  Perhaps  you  may  have  met  him 
abroad,  for  he  has  been  a  great  traveller  ;  his  family  is  among 
the  most  ancient  in  England,  and  his  father's  estate  covers  half 
a  county.  All  this  mamma  tells  me,  with  the  most  earnest  air 
in  the  world,  whenever  I  declaim  upon  his  impertinence  or 
disagreeability  (is  there  such  a  word  1  there  ought  to  be). 
"  Well,"  said  I  to-day,  "  what 's  that  to  me  ? "  "  It  may  be  a 
great  deal  to  you,"  replied  mamma,  significantly,  and  the  blood 
rushed  from  my  face  to  my  heart.  She  could  not,  Eleanor, 
she  could  not  mean,  after  all  her  kindness  to  Clarence,  and  iu 
spite  of  all  her  penetration  into  my  heart,  —  oh,  no,  no  ;  she 
could  not.     How  terribly  suspicious  this  love  makes  one  ! 

But  if  I  disliked  Lord  Borodaile  at  first,  I  have  hated  him 
of  late;  for,  somehow  or  other,  he  is  always  in  the  way.  If 
I  see  Clarence  hastening  through  the  crowd  to  ask  me  to  dance, 
at  that  very  instant  up  steps  Lord  Borodaile  with  his  cold, 
changeless  face,  and  his  haughty,  old-fashioned  bow,  and  his 
abominable  dark  complexion;  and  mamma  smiles;  and  he 
hopes  he  finds  me  disengaged ;  and  I  am  hurried  off,  —  and 
VOL.  I.  —  16 


242  THE   DISOWNED. 

poor  Clarence  looks  so  ilisappointed  and  so  wretched  !  You 
have  no  idea  how  ill-tempered  this  makes  me.  I  could  not 
help  asking  Lord  Borodaile,  yesterday,  if  he  was  never  going 
abroad  again;  and  the  hateful  creature  played  with  his  cravat, 
and  answered  "Never!"  I  was  in  hopes  that  ray  sullenness 
would  drive  his  lordship  away  ;  tout  an  contraire,  "  Notliing," 
said  he  to  me  the  other  day,  when  he  was  in  full  pout,  — 
"  nothing  is  so  plebeian  as  good-humor  !  " 

I  wish  then,  Eleanor,  that  he  could  see  your  governess;  she 
must  be  majesty  itself  in  his  eyes! 

Ah,  dearest,  how  we  belie  ourselves.  At  this  moment,  when 
you  might  think,  from  the  idle,  rattling,  silly  flow  of  my  letter, 
that  my  heart  was  as  light  and  free  as  it  was  wdien  we  used  to 
play  on  the  green  lawn,  and  under  the  sunny  trees,  in  the 
merry  days  of  our  chihlhood,  the  tears  are  running  down  my 
cheeks;  see  where  they  have  fallen  on  the  page,  and  my  head 
throbs  as  if  my  thoughts  were  too  full  and  heavy  for  it  to  con- 
tain.    It  is  past  one  !     I   am  alone,  and  in  my  own  room. 

Mamma  is  gone  to  a  rout  at  H House ;  but  I  knew  I 

should  not  meet  Clarence  there,  and  so  I  said  I  was  ill,  and 
remained  at  home.  I  have  done  so  often  of  late,  whenever  I 
have  learned  from  him  that  he  was  not  going  to  the  same  place 
as  mamma.  Indeed,  I  love  much  better  to  sit  alone  and  think 
over  his  words  and  looks  ;  and  I  have  drawn,  after  repeated 
attempts,  a  profile  likeness  of  him;  and  oh,  Eleanor,  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  dear  it  is  to  me ;  and  yet  there  is  not  a  line,  not 
a  look  of  his  countenance  which  I  have  not  learned  by  heart, 
without  such  useless  aids  to  my  memory.  But  I  am  ashamed 
of  telling  you  all  this,  and  my  eyes  ache  so,  that  I  can  write 
no  more. 

Ever,  as  ever,  dearest  Eleanor,  your  aflfectionate  friend. 

LETTER   IIL 

FROM   THE   SAME   TO   THE   SAME. 

Eleanor,  I  am  undone  !  My  mother  —  my  mother  has  been 
so  cruel  ;  hut  she  cannot,  she  cannot  intend  it,  or  she  knows 
very  little  of  my  heart.     With    some,  ties   may  be  as  easily 


THE   DISOWNED.  243 

broken  as  formed  ;  with  others  they  are  twined  around  life 
itself. 

Clarence  dined  with  us  yesterday,  and  was  unusually  ani- 
mated and  agreeable.  He  was  engaged  on  business  with  Lord 
Aspeden  afterwards,  and  left  us  early.  We  had  a  few  people 
in  the  evening,  Lord  Borodaile  among  the  rest  ;  and  my 
mother  spoke  of  Clarence,  and  his  relationship  to,  and  expec- 
tations from,  Mr.  Talbot.  Lord  Borodaile  sneered;  "You  are 
mistaken,"  said  he,  sarcastically;  "  Mr.  Linden  may  feel  it  con- 
venient to  give  out  that  he  is  related  to  so  old  a  family  as  the 
Talbots  ;  and  since  Heaven  only  knows  who  or  what  he  is, 
he  may  as  well  claim  alliance  with  one  person  as  another;  but 
he  is  certainly  not  the  nephew  of  Mr.  Talbot  of  Scarsdale  Park, 
for  that  gentleman  had  no  sisters,  and  but  one  brother,  who 
left  an  only  daughter;  that  daughter  had  also  but  one  child, 
certainly  no  relation  to  Mr,  Linden.  I  can  vouch  for  the 
truth  of  this  statement ;  for  the  Talbots  are  related  to,  or  are 
at  least  nearlj'  connected  with  myself;  and  I  thank  Heaven 
that  I  have  a  pedigree,  even  in  its  collateral  branches,  worth 
learning  by  heart."  And  then  Lord  Borodaile  —  I  little 
thought,  when  I  railed  against  him,  what  serious  cause  I  should 
have  to  hate  him  —  turned  to  me,  and  harassed  me  with  his 
tedious  attentions  the  whole  of  the  evening. 

This  morning  mamma  sent  for  me  into  her  boudoir.  "  I 
have  observed,"  said  she,  with  the  greatest  indifference,  "that 
Mr.  Linden  has,  of  late,  been  much  too  particular  in  his  man- 
ner towards  you,  —  your  foolish  and  undue  familiarity  with 
every  one  has  perhaps  given  him  encouragement.  After  the 
gross  imposition  which  Lord  Borodaile  exposed  to  us  last  night, 
I  cannot  but  consider  the  3'oung  man  as  a  mere  adventurer, 
and  must  not  only  insist  on  your  putting  a  total  termination 
to  civilities,  which  we  must  henceforth  consider  presiimption, 
but  I  myself  shall  consider  it  incumbent  upon  me  greatly  to 
limit  the  advances  he  has  thought  proper  to  make  towards  my 
acquaintance." 

You  may  guess  how  thunderstruck  I  was  by  this  speech.  I 
could  not  answer  ;  my  tongue  literally  clove  to  my  mouth,  and 
I  was  only  relieved  by  a  sudden  and  violent  burst  of  tears. 


244  THE    DISOWNED. 

Mamma  looked  exceedingly  displeased,  and  was  just  going  to 
speak,  when  the  servant  tlirew  open  the  door  and  announced 
Mr.  Linden.  I  rose  hastily,  and  had  only  just  time  to  escape 
as  he  entered  ;  but  when  I  heard  that  dear,  dear  voice,  I  could 
not  resist  turning  for  one  moment.  He  saw  me,  and  was 
struck  mute;  for  the  agony  of  my  soul  was  stamped  visibly  on 
my  countenance.  That  moment  was  over,  —  with  a  violent 
effort  I  tore  myself  away. 

Eleanor,  I  can  now  write  no  more.     God  bless  you  I  and  me 
too,  —  for  I  am  very,  very  unhappy. 

F.  A. 


THE   DISOWNED.  245 


CHAPTEK  XXXVII. 

What  a  charming  character  is  a  kind  old  naan. 

Stephen  Montague. 

"Cheer  up,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Talbot,  kindly,  "we 
must  never  despair.  What  though  Lady  Westborough 
has  forbidden  you  the  boudoir;  aboudoh'  is  a  very  differ- 
ent thing  from  a  daughter,  and  you  have  no  right  to  sup- 
pose that  the  veto  extends  to  both.  But  now  that  we  are 
on  this  subject,  do  let  me  reason  with  you  seriously. 
Have  you  not  already  tasted  all  the  pleasures,  and  been 
sufficiently  annoyed  by  some  of  the  pains,  of  acting  the 
'  Incognito  '  ?  Be  ruled  by  me :  resume  your  proper 
name ;  it  is  at  least  one  which  the  proudest  might  ac- 
knowledge; and  its  discovery  will  remove  the  greatest 
obstacle  to  the  success  which  you  so  ardently  desire." 

Clarence,  who  was  laboring  under  strong  excitement, 
paused  for  some  moments,  as  if  to  collect  himself,  be- 
fore he  replied:  "  I  have  been  thrust  from  my  father's 
home,  I  have  been  made  the  victim  of  another's  crime, 
I  have  been  denied  the  rights  and  name  of  son ;  perhaps 
(and  I  say  this  bitterly)  justly  denied  them,  despite 
of  my  own  innocence.  What  would  you  have  me  do  1 
Resume  a  name  never  conceded  to  me, — perhaps  not 
righteously  mine  ;  thrust  myself  upon  the  unwilling 
and  shrinking  hands  which  disowned  and  rejected  me ; 
blazon  my  virtues  by  pretensions  which  I  myself  have 
promised  to  forego,  and  foist  myself  on  the  notice  of 
strangers  by  the  very  claims  which  my  nearest  relations 


246  THE   DISOWNED. 

dispute?  Never,  never,  never!  With  the  simple  name 
I  have  assumed,  the  friend  I  myself  have  won, — you, 
my  generous  benefactor,  my  real  father,  who  never  for- 
sook nor  insulted  me  for  my  misfortunes,  —  with  these, 
I  have  gained  some  steps  in  the  ladder ;  with  these,  and 
those  gifts  of  nature,  a  stout  heart,  and  a  willing  hand, 
of  which  none  can  rob  me,  I  will  either  ascend  the  rest, 
even  to  the  summit,  or  fall  to  the  dust,  unknown,  but 
not   contemned;    unlamented,   but   not  despised." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Talbot,  brushing  away  a  tear 
which  he  covdd  not  deny  to  the  feeling,  even  while  he 
disputed  the  jxidgment  of  the  young  adventurer,  — 
"well,  this  is  all  very  fine  and  very  foolish;  but  you 
shall  never  want  friend  or  father  while  I  live,  or  when  I 
have  ceased  to  live;  but  come, — sit  down,  share  my 
dinner,  which  is  not  very  good,  and  my  dessert,  which 
is.  Help  me  to  entertain  two  or  three  guests  who  are 
coming  to  me  in  the  evening,  to  talk  on  literature,  sup, 
and  sleep;  and  to-morrow  you  shall  return  home,  and 
see  Lady  Plora  in  the  drawing-room,  if  you  cannot  in 
the  boudoir." 

And  Clarence  was  easily  persuaded  to  accept  the 
invitation. 

Talbot  was  not  one  of  those  men  who  are  forced  to 
exert  themselves  to  be  entertaining.  He  had  the 
pleasant  and  easy  way  of  imparting  his  great  general  and 
curious  information,  that  a  man,  partly  humorist,  partly 
philosopher,  who  vahies  himself  on  being  a  man  of 
letters,  and  is  in  spite  of  himself  a  man  of  the  world, 
always  ought  to  possess.  Clarence  was  soon  beguiled 
from  the  remembrance  of  his  mortifications,  and,  by  little 
and  little,  entirely  yielded  to  the  airy  and  happy  flow 
of  Talbot's  conversation. 

In  the  evening,  three  or  four  men  of  literary  eminence 


THE   DISOWNED.  247 

(as  many  as  Talbot's  small  Tusculum  would  accommo- 
date with  beds)  arrived,  and  in  a  conversation,  free  alike 
from  the  jargon  of  pedants  and  the  insipidities  of  fash- 
ion, the  night  fled  away  swiftly  and  happily  even  to 
the  lover. 


248  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

We  are  here  (in  the  country)  among  the  vast  and  noble  scenes  of 
nature;  we  are  there  (in  the  town)  among  the  pitiful  .sliil'ts  of 
policy.  We  walk  here  in  the  light  and  open  ways  of  the  divine 
bounty  ;  we  grope  there  in  tlie  dark  and  confused  labyrinths  of 
human  malice ;  our  senses  are  liere  feasted  with  all  the  clear  and 
genuine  taste  of  their  objects,  which  are  all  sophisticated  there, 
and  for  tlie  most  part  overwhelmed  with  their  contraries.  Here 
pleasure,  methiuks,  looks  like  a  beautiful,  constant,  and  modest 
wife  ;  it  is  there  an  impudent,  fickle,  and  painted  harlot. 

Cowley. 

Draw  up  the  curtain !     The  scene  is  the  opera. 

The  pit  is  crowded ;  the  connoisseurs  in  the  front  row 
are  in  a  very  ill  humor.  It  must  be  confessed ,  that  ex- 
treme heat  is  a  little  trying  to  the  temper  of  a  critic. 

The  opera  then  was  not  what  it  is  now,  nor  even  wliat 
it  had  been  in  a  former  time.  It  is  somewhat  amusing 
to  find  Goldsmith  questioning,  in  one  of  his  Essays, 
whether  the  opera  could  ever  become  popular  in  Eng- 
land. But  on  the  night  on  which  the  reader  is  sum- 
moned to  that  "  theatre  of  sweet  sounds,"  a  celebrated 
singer  from  the  Continent  made  his  first  appearance  in 
London,  and  all  the  world  thronged  to  "  that  odious 
opera-house,"  to  hear  or  to  say  they  had  heard  the 
famous  Sopraniello. 

With  a  nervous  step,  Clarence  proceeded  to  Lady 
Westborough's  box;  and  it  was  many  minutes  that 
he  lingered  by  the  door  before  he  summoned  courage  to 
obtain  admission. 

He  entered:  the  box  was  crowded;  but  Lady  Flora 
was  not  there.     Lord  Borodaile  was  sitting  next  to  Lady 


THE   DISOWNED.  249 

Westborougb.  As  Clarence  entered  Lord  Borodaile 
raised  his  eyebrows,  and  Lady  Westborough  her  glass. 
However  disposed  a  great  person  may  be  to  drop  a  lesser 
one,  no  one  of  real  birth  or  breeding  ever  cuts  another. 
Lady  Westborough,  therefore,  though  much  colder,  was 
no  less  civil  than  usual  j  and  Lord  Borodaile  bowed 
lower  than  ever  to  Mr.  Linden,  as  he  punctiliously 
called  him.  But  Clarence's  quick  eye  discovered  in- 
stantly that  he  was  no  welcome  intruder,  and  that  his 
day  with  the  beautiful  marchioness  was  over.  His 
visit,  consequently,  was  short  and  embarrassed.  When 
he  left  the  box  he  heard  Lord  Borodaile's  short, 
slow,  sneering  laugh,  followed  by  Lady  Westborough's 
"  hush"  of  reproof. 

His  blood  boiled.  He  hurried  along  the  passage  with 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground  and  his  hand  clenched. 

"What  ho!  Linden,  my  good  fellow;  why,  you 
look  as  if  all  the  ferocity  of  the  great  Figg  were  in  your 
veins,"  cried  a  good-humored  voice,  Clarence  started, 
and  saw  the  young  and  high-spirited  Duke  of  Haverfield. 

"  Are  you  going  behind  the  scenes  1  "  said  his  grace. 
"  I  have  just  come  thence ;  and  you  had  much  better 
djop  into  La  Meronville's  box  with  me.  You  sup  with 
her  to-night,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  Ko,  indeed!"  replied  Clarence;  "I  scarcely  know 
her,  except  by  sight." 

"  Well,  and  what  think  you  of  her?  " 

"  That  she  is  the  prettiest  Frenchwoman  I  ever 
saw. " 

"  Commend  me  to  secret  sympathies !  "  cried  the  duke. 
"  She  has  asked  me  three  times  who  you  were,  and  told 
me  three  times  that  3'ou  were  the  handsomest  man  in 
London,  and  had  quite  a  foreign  air;  the  latter  recom- 
mendation being  of  course  far  greater  than  the  former. 


2r>0  T[1E    DISOWNED. 

So,  after  this,  you  cannot  refuse  to   accompany  me  to 
her  box,  and  make  her  acquaintance." 

"  Nay,"  answered  Clarence,  "  I  shall  he  too  happy  to 
profit  by  the  taste  of  so  discerning  a  person;  but  it  is 
cruel  in  you,  l)uke,  not  to  feign  a  little  jealousy, — a 
little  reluctance  to  introduce  so  formidable  a  rival." 

"  Oh,  as  to  me,"  said  the  duke,  "  I  only  like  her  for 
her  mental,  not  her  personal  attractions.  She  is  very 
agreeable,  and  a  little  witty;  sutficient  attractions  for 
one  in  her  situation." 

"  But  do  tell  me  a  little  of  her  history,"  said  Clarence ; 
"  for,  in  spite  of  her  renown,  I  only  know  her  as  La 
Belle  Meronville.  Is  she  not  living  en  ami  with  some 
one  of  our  acquaintance  1  " 

"  To  be  sure,"  replied  the  duke,  "  with  Lord  Borodaile. 
She  is  prodigiously  extravagant;  and  Borodaile  affects 
to  be  prodigiously  fond ;  but  as  there  is  only  a  certain 
fund  of  affection  in  the  human  heart,  and  all  Lord  Boro- 
daile's  is  centred  in  Lord  Borodaile,  that  cannot  really 
be  the  case." 

"  Is  he  jealous  of  her  1  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Not  in  the  least,  nor  indeed  does  she  give  him  any 
cause.  She  is  very  gay,  very  talkative,  gives  excellent 
suppers,  and  always  has  her  box  at  the  opera  crowded 
with  admirers;  but  that  is  all.  She  encourages  many, 
and  favors  but  one.  Happy  Borodaile!  My  lot  is  less 
fortunate!  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  Julia  has  de- 
serted me  1 " 

"  Yon  astonish  me,  —  and  for  what  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  told  me,  with  a  vehement  burst  of  tears, 
that  she  was  convinced  I  did  not  love  her,  and  that  a 
hundred  pounds  a  month  was  not  sufficient  to  maintain 
a  milliner's  apprentice.  I  answered  the  first  assertion 
by  an  assurance  that  I  adored  her;    but  I  preserved  a 


THE   DISOWNED.  251 

total  silence  with  regard  to  the  latter ;  and  so  I  found 
Trevanion  tete-a-tete  with  her  the  next  day." 

"What  did  you?  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Sent  my  valet  to  Trevanion  with  an  old  coat  of 
mine,  my  compliments,  and  my  hopes  that,  as  Mr. 
Trevanion  was  so  fond  of  my  cast-off  conveniences, 
he  would  honor  me  by  accepting  the  accompanying 
trifle." 

"  He  challenged  you,  without  doubt  1  " 

"  Challenged  me!  No;  he  tells  all  his  friends  that  I 
am  the  wittiest  man  in  Europe." 

"  A  fool  can  speak  the  truth,  you  see,"  said  Clarence, 
laughing. 

"Thank  you,  Linden;  you  shall  have  my  good  word 
with  La  Meronville  for  that;  mais  ollons." 

Mademoiselle  de  la  Meronville,  as  she  pointedly  en- 
titled herself,  was  one  of  those  charming  adventuresses 
who,  making  the  most  of  a  good  education  and  a  prepos- 
sessing person,  a  delicate  turn  for  letter- writing,  and  a 
lively  vein  of  conversation,  come  to  England  for  a  year 
or  two,  as  Spaniards  were  wont  to  go  to  Mexico,  and 
who  return  to  their  native  country  with  a  profound  con- 
tempt for  the  barbarians  whom  they  have  so  egregiously 
despoiled.  Mademoiselle  de  la  Meronville  was  sm.all, 
beautifully  formed,  had  the  prettiest  hands  and  feet  in 
the  world,  and  laughed  wvsirallj/.  By  the  by,  how 
difficult  it  is  to  laugh,  or  even  to  smile,  at  once  naturally 
and  gracefully.  It  is  one  of  Steele's  finest  touches  of 
character  where  he  says  of  Will  Honeycomb,  "  He  can 
smile  when  one  speaks  to  him,  and  laughs  easily." 

In  a  word,  the  pretty  Frenchwoman  was  precisely 
formed  to  turn  the  head  of  a  man  like  Lord  Borodaile, 
who  loved  to  be  courted,  and  who  required  to  be 
amused.     "  Mademoiselle  de  la  Meronville  received  Clar- 


252  THE   DISOWNED. 

ence  with  a  great  deal  of  grace,  and  a  little  reserve,  the 
first  chiefly  natural,  the  last  wholly  artificial. 

"  Well, "  said  tlie  duke  (in  French),  "  you  have  not 
told  me  who  are  to  be  of  your  party  this  evening,  — 
Borodaile,  I  suppose,  of  course  ?  " 

"  No,  he  cannot  come  to-night. " 

"Ah,  quel  malheurf  then  the  hock  will  not  be  iced 
enough,  —  Borodaile's  looks  are  the  best  wine-coolers  in 
the  world." 

"  Fie !  "  cried  La  Meronville,  glancing  towards  Clar- 
ence :  "  I  cannot  endure  your  malevolence ;  wit  makes 
you  very  bitter." 

"  And  that  is  exactly  the  reason  Avhy  La  Belle  Meron- 
ville loves  me  so.  Nothing  is  so  sweet  to  one  person  as 
bitterness  upon  another ;  it  is  human  nature  and  French 
nature  (which  is  a  very  different  thing)  into  the 
bargain. " 

"Bah!  my  lord  duke,  you  judge  of  others  by  your- 
self." 

"To  be  sure  I  do,"  cried  the  duke;  "and  that  is  the 
best  way  of  forming  a  right  judgment.  Ah!  what  a 
foot  that  little  figurante  has,  — you  don't  admire  her. 
Linden  1 " 

"No,  Duke;  my  admiration  is  like  the  Inrd  in  the 
cage,  —  chained  here,  and  cannot  fly  away!"  ansAvered 
Clarence,  with  a  smile  at  the  frippery  of  his  compli- 
ment. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur,"  cried  the  pretty  Frenchwoman, 
leaning  back,  "  you  have  been  at  Paris,  I  see,  —  one  does 
not  learn  those  graces  of  language  in  England.  I  have 
been  five  months  in  your  country,  —  brought  over  the 
prettiest  dresses  imaginable,  and  have  only  received 
three  compliments,  and  (pity  me!)  two  out  of  the  three 
were  upon  my  pronunciation  of  '  How  do  you  do  ? '  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  253 

"  Well, "  said  Clarence,  "  I  should  have  imagined  that 
in  England,  above  all  other  countries,  your  vanity  would 
have  been  gratified;  for  you  know  we  pique  ourselves 
on  our  smcerity,   and  say  all  we  think." 

"  Yes !  then  you  ahvays  think  very  unpleasantly ; 
what  an  alternative  !  which  is  the  best,  to  speak  ill,  or 
to  think  ill  of  one  ?  " 

"Pour  V amour  de  Dieu,"  cried  the  duke,  "don't 
ask  such  puzzling  questions;  you  are  always  getting  into 
those  moral  subtleties,  which  I  suppose  you  learn  from 
Borodaile.     He   is  a   wonderful  metaphysician,  I  hear, 

—  I  can  answer  for  his  chemical  powers ;  the  moment  he 
enters  a  room  the  very  walls  grow  damp ;  as  for  me,  I 
dissolve;  I  should  flow  into  a  foimtain,  like  Arethusa, 
if  happily  his  lordship  did  not  freeze  one  again  into  sub- 
stance as  fast  as  he  dampens  one  mto  thaw." 

"  Fi  done  !  "  cried  La  IMeronville.  "  I  should  be 
very  angry,  had  you  not  taught  me  to  be  very  in- 
different —  " 

"  To  him  /  "  said  the  duke,  dryly.  "  I  'm  glad  to  hear 
it.     He  is  not  Avorth  une  (jrande  2)ttssion,  believe  me, 

—  but  tell  me,  ma  belle,  who  else  sups  with  you  1  " 

"  D'abord,  Monsieur  Linden,  I  trust,"  answered  La 
Meronville,  with  a  look  of  invitation  to  which  Clarence 

bowed  and  smiled  his  assent,  "  INEilord  D ,  and  Mons. 

Trevanion,  Mademoiselle  Caumartin,  and  Le  Prince 
Pietro  del  Ordino." 

"  Xothing  can  be  better  arranged,"  said  the  duke. 
"  But  see,  they  are  just  going  to  drop  the  curtain.  Let 
me  call  your  carriage." 

"  You  are  too  good,  ^lilord,"  replied  La  IMeronville, 
with  a  bow,  which  said,  "Of  course;"  and  the  duke, 
who  wovild  not  have  stirred  three  paces  for  the  first  prin- 
cess of   the   blood,  hurried  out  of  the  box  (despite  of 


254  THE   DISOWNED. 

Clarence's  offer  to  nndertake  tlie  commission)  to  inquire 
after  the  carriage  of  the  most  notorious  adventuress  of 
the  day. 

Clarence  was  alone  in  the  box  with  the  beautiful 
Frenchwoman.  To  say  truth,  Linden  was  far  too 
much  in  love  with  Lady  Flora,  and  too  occupied,  as  to 
his  other  thoughts,  Avith  the  projects  of  ambition,  to  be 
easily  led  into  any  disreputable  or  criminal  liaison;  he 
therefore  conversed  with  his  usual  ease,  though  with 
rather  more  than  his  usual  gallantry,  without  feeling 
the  least  touched  by  the  charms  of  La  Meronville,  or 
the  least  desirous  of  supplanting  Lord  Borodaile  in  her 
favor. 

The  duke  reappeared,  and  announced  the  carriage. 
As,  with  La  Meronville  leaning  on  his  arm,  Clarence 
hurried  out,  he  accidentally  looked  up,  and  saw  on  the 
head  of  the  stairs  Lady  Westborough  with  her  party 
(Lord  Borodaile  among  the  rest)  in  waiting  for  her 
carriage.  For  almost  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Clarence 
felt  ashamed  of  himself;  his  cheek  burned  like  fire,  and 
he  involuntarily  let  go  the  fair  hand  which  was  leaning 
upon  his  arm.  However,  the  weaker  our  cause  the 
better  face  we  should  put  upon  it,  and  Clarence,  recover- 
ing his  presence  of  mind,  and  vainly  hoping  he  had  not 
been  perceived,  buried  his  fact;  as  Avell  as  he  was  able  in 
the  fur  collar  of  his  cloak,  and  huiTied  on. 

"  You  saw  Lord  Borodaile  ? "  said  the  duke  to  La 
Meronville,  as  he  handed  her  into  her  carriage. 

"  Yes,  I  accidentally  looked  back  after  we  had  passed 
him,  and  tlien  I  saw  him." 

"Looked  back!"  said  the  duke;  "I  wonder  he  did 
not  turn  you  into  a  pillar  of  salt. " 

"  Fi  done  !  "  cried  La  Belle  Meronville,  tapping  his 
grace  playfully  on  the  arm,  in  order  to  do  which  she 


THE   DISOWNED.  255 

was  forced  to  lean  a  little  harder  upon  Clarence's,  Avliicli 
she  had  not  yet  relinquished,  — "  _/?  done  !  —  Frangois, 
chez  moi  !  " 

"My  carriage  is  just  behind,"  said  the  duke.  "  You 
will  go  with  me  to  La  Meronville's,  of  course." 

"Eeally,my  dear  duke,"  said  Clarence,  "I  wish  I 
could  excuse  myself  from  this  party.  I  have  another 
engagement. " 

"  Excuse  yourself  ?  —  and  leave  me  to  the  mercy  of 
Mademoiselle  Caumartin,  who  has  the  face  of  an  ostrich, 
and  talks  me  out  of  breath !  Never,  my  dear  Linden , 
never!  Besides,  I  want  you  to  see  how  well  I  shall 
behave  to  Trevanion.  Here  is  the  carriage.  Entrez, 
mon  cher. " 

And  Clarence,  weakly  and  foolishly  (but  he  was  very 
young  and  very  unhappy,  and  so  longing  for  an  escape 
from  his  own  thoughts),  entered  the  carriage,  and  drove 
to  the  supper  party,  in  order  to  prevent  the  Duke  of 
Haverfield  being  talked  out  of  breath  by  Mademoiselle 
Caumartin,  who  had  the  face  of  an  ostrich. 


256  THE    DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Yet  truth  is  keenly  sono^ht  for,  and  the  wind, 
Charged  with  rich  words,  poured  out  iu  thought's  defence, 
Whether  the  church  iuspire  that  eloijueuce, 
Or  a  Platonic  piety,  confined 
To  the  sole  temple  of  the  inward  mind  ; 
And  one  there  is  who  huilds  immortal  lays, 
Though  doomed  to  tread  in  solitaiy  ways ; 
Darkne-ss  before,  and  danger's  voice  behind ! 
Yet  not  alone. 

Wordsworth. 

London,  —  thou  Niobe,  who  sittest  in  stone,  r.midst  thy 
stricken  and  fated  children;  nurse  of  the  desolate,  that 
hidest  in  thy  bosom  the  shame,  the  sorrows,  the  sins  of 
many  sons;  in  whose  arms  the  fallen  and  the  outcast 
shroud  their  distresses,  and  shelter  from  the  proud  man's 
contumely;  epitome  and  focus  of  the  disparities  and 
maddening  contrasts  of  this  wrong  world,  that  assem- 
blest  together  in  one  great  heap  the  woes,  the  joys,  the 
elevations,  the  debasements  of  the  various  tribes  of  man; 
mightiest  of  levellers,  confounding  in  thy  whirlpool  all 
ranks,  all  minds,  tlie  graven  labors  of  knowledge,  the 
straws  of  the  maniac,  purple  and  rags,  the  regalities  and 
the  loathsomeness  of  earth,  —  palace  and  lazar-house 
combined!  Grave  of  the  living,  where,  mingled  and 
massed  together,  we  couch,  but  rest  not;  "for  in  that 
sleep  of  life  what  dreams  do  come,"  each  vexed  with  a 
separate  vision,  — "  shadows  "  which  "  grieve  the  heart," 
unreal  in  their  substance,  but  faithful  in  their  Avarnings, 
flitting  from  the  eye,  but  graving  untleeting  memories 


THE   DISOWNED.  257 

on  the  mind,  which  reproduce  new  dreams  over  and 
over,  until  the  phantasm  ceases,  and  the  pall  of  a 
heavier  torpor  falls  upon  the  brain,  and  all  is  still 
and  dark  and  hushed !  —  "  From  the  stir  of  thy  great 
Babel,"  and  the  fixed  tinsel  glare  in  which  sits  Pleas- 
ure like  a  star,  "  which  shines,  but  warms  not  with 
its  powerless  rays,"  we  turn  to  thy  deeper  and 
more  secret  haunts.  Thy  wilderness  ^3  all  before  us, 
—  where  to  choose  our  place  of  rest;  and^  to  our  eyes, 
thy  hidden  recesses  are  revealed. 

The  clock  of  St.  Paul's  had  tolled  the  seconu  hov.r  of 
morning.  Within  a  small  and  humble  apartment,  in 
the  very  heart  of  the  city,  there  sat  a  writer,  v/hose 
lucubrations,  then  obscure  and  unknown,  were  destined, 
years  afterwards,  to  excite  the  vague  admiration  of  the 
crowd,  and  the  deeper  homage  of  the  wise.  They  were 
of  that  nature  which  is  slow  in  winning  its  way  to 
popular  esteem,  —  the  result  of  the  hived  and  hoarded 
knowledge  of  years,  the  produce  of  deep  thought  and 
sublime  aspirations,  influencing  in  its  bearings  the  in- 
terests of  the  many,  yet  only  capable  of  analysis  by  the 
judgment  of  the  few.  But  the  stream  broke  forth  at 
last  from  the  cavern  to  the  daylight,  although  the  source 
was  never  traced ;  or,  to  change  the  image ,  —  albeit  none 
know  the  hand  which  executed,  and  the  head  which 
designed,  —  the  monument  of  a  mighty  intellect  has 
been  at  length  dug  up,  as  it  were,  from  the  envious 
earth,  the  brighter  for  its  past  obscurity,  and  the  more 
certain  of  immortality  from  the  temporary  neglect  It  has 
sustained. 

The  room  was,  as  we  before  said,  very  small  and 
meanly  furnished ;  yet  were  there  a  few  articles  of  cost- 
liness and  luxury  scattered  about,  which  told  that  the 
tastes  of  its  owner  had  not  been  quite  humbled  to  the 

VOL.  I.  — 17 


258  THE   DISOWNED. 

level  of  his  fortunes.  One  side  of  the  narrow  chamber 
was  covered  with  shelves,  which  supported  books  in 
various  languages;  and  thoiigli  chiefly  on  scicntitic  sub- 
jects, not  utterly  confined  to  them.  Among  the  doc- 
trines of  the  philosopher,  and  the  golden  rules  of  the 
moralist,  were  also  seen  the  pleasant  dreams  of  poets, 
the  legends  of  Spenser,  the  refining  moralities  of  Pope, 
the  lofty  errors  of  Lucretius,  and  the  sublime  relics  of 
our  "dead  kings  of  melody."^  And  over  the  hearth 
was  a  picture,  taken  in  more  prosperous  days,  of  one 
who  had  been,  and  was  yet,  to  the  tenant  of  that  abode, 
better  than  fretted  roofs  and  glittering  banquets,  the 
objects  of  ambition,  or  even  the  immortality  of  fame. 
It  was  the  "face  of  one  very  young  and  beautiful,  and  the 
deep,  tender  eyes  looked  down,  as  with  a  watchful 
fondness,  upon  the  lucubrator  and  his  labors.  While 
beneath  the  window,  which  was  left  unclosed,  for  it  was 
scarcely  June,  were  simple  yet  not  inelegant  vases  filled 
with  flowers: 

"  These  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave."  2 

The  writer  was  alone,  and  had  just  paused  from  his 
employment;  he  was  leaning  his  face  upon  one  hand,  in 
a  thoughtful  and  earnest  mood,  and  the  air,  which  came 
chill  but  gentle  from  the  window,  slightly  stirred  the 
locks  from  the  broad  and  marked  brow,  over  which  they 
fell  in  thin  but  graceful  waves.  Partly  owing,  perhaps, 
to  the  waning  light  of  the  single  lamp  and  the  lateness 
of  the  hour,  his  clieek  seemed  very  pale,  and  the  com- 
plete, though  contemplative  rest  of  the  features  partook 
greatly  of  the  quiet  of  habitual  sadness,  and  a  little  of 

1  Shakespeare  and  Milton.  ^  Herrick. 


THE   DISOWNED.  259 

the  languor  of  shaken  health ;  yet  the  expression ,  despite 
the  proud  cast  of  the  brow  and  profile,  was  rather  be- 
nevolent than  stern  or  dark  in  its  pensiveness,  and  the 
lines  spoke  more  of  the  wear  and  harrow  of  deep 
thought,  than  the  inroads  of  ill-regulated  passion. 

There  was  a  slight  tap  at  the  door,  —  the  latch  was 
raised,  and  the  original  of  the  picture  I  have  described 
entered  the  apartment. 

Time  had  not  been  idle  with  her  since  that  portrait 
had  been  taken :  the  round  elastic  figure  had  lost  much 
of  its  youth  and  freshness;  the  step,  though  light,  was 
languid,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  fair  smooth  cheek, 
which  was  a  little  sunken,  burned  one  deep,  bright 
spot, fatal  sign  to  those  who  have  watched  the  pro- 
gress of  the  most  deadly  and  deceitful  of  our  national 
maladies ;  yet  still  the  form  and  countenance  were  emi- 
nently interesting  and  lovely;  and  though  the  bloom 
was  gone  forever,  the  beauty,  which  not  even  death 
could  wholly  have  despoiled,  remained  to  triumph  over 
debility,   misfortune,  and  disease. 

She  approached  the  student,  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  — 

"Dearest!"  said  he,  tenderly  yet  reproachfully,  "yet 
up,  and  the  hour  so  late,  and  yourself  so  weak?  Fie,  I 
must  learn  to  scold  you. " 

"  And  how,"  answered  the  intruder,  "  how  could  I 
sleep  or  rest  while  you  are  consuming  your  very  life  in 
those  thankless  labors  1  " 

"By  which,"  interrupted  the  writer,  with  a  faint 
smile,  "we  glean  our  scanty  subsistence." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  wife  (for  she  held  that  relation  to  the 
student) ,  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes ;  "  I  know  well 
that  every  morsel  of  bread,  every  drop  of  water,  is  wrung 
from  your  very  heart's  blood,  and  I  —  I  am  the  cause  of 


260  THE   DISOWNED. 

all;  but  surely  you  exert  yourself  too  much,  more  than 
can  be  requisite.  These  night  damps,  this  sickly  and 
chilling  air,  heavy  with  the  rank  vapors  of  the  coming 
morning,  are  not  suited  to  thoughts  and  toils  which  are 
alone  suthcient  to  sear  your  mind  and  exhaust  your 
strength.  Come,  my  own  love,  to  bed;  and  yet,  first, 
come  and  look  upon  our  child,  —  how  sound  she  sleeps! 
I  have  leaned  over  her  for  the  last  hour,  and  tried  to 
fancy  it  was  you  whom  I  watched ;  for  she  has  learned 
already  your  smile,  and  has  it  even  when  she  sleeps." 

"  She  has  cause  to  smile,"  said  the  husband,  bitterly. 

"  She  has,  for  she  is  yours!  and  even  in  poverty  and 
humble  hopes,  that  is  an  inheritance  which  may  well 
teach  her  pride  and  joy.  Come,  love,  the  air  is  keen, 
and  the  damp  rises  to  your  forehead, — yet  stay,  till  I 
have  kissed  it  away." 

"Mine  own  love,"  said  the  student,  as  he  rose  and 
wound  his  arm  round  the  slender  waist  of  his  Avife, 
"  wrap  your  shawl  closer  over  your  bosom,  and  let  us 
look  for  one  instant  upon  the  night.  I  cannot  sleep  till 
I  have  slaked  the  fever  of  my  blood;  the  air  has  noth- 
ing of  coldness  in  its  breath  to  me." 

And  they  walked  to  the  window,  and  looked  forth. 
All  was  hushed  and  still  in  the  narrow  street;  the  cold 
gray  clouds  Avere  hurrying  fast  along  the  sky,  and  the 
stars,  weak  and  waning  in  their  light,  gleamed  forth  at 
rare  intervals  upon  the  mute  city,  like  the  expiring 
watch-lamps  of  the  dead. 

They  leaned  out,  and  spoke  not;  but  Avhen  they 
looked  above  upon  the  melancholy  heavens,  they  drew 
nearer  to  each  other,  as  if  it  were  their  natural  instinct 
to  do  so,  whenever  the  world  without  seemed  discour- 
aging and  sad. 

At  length  tlie   student   broke   the   silence;    but   his 


THE   DISOWNED.  261 

thoughts,  which  were  wandering  and  disjointed,  were 
breathed  less  to  her  than  vaguely  and  unconsciously  to 
himself:  "Morn  breaks,  —  another  and  another! — day 
upon  day !  —  while  we  drag  on  our  load  like  the  blind 
beast  which  knows  not  when  the  burden  shall  be  cast  off, 
and  the  hour  of  rest  be  come. " 

The  woman  pressed  his  hand  to  her  bosom,  but  made 
no  rejoinder,  —  she  knew  his  mood,  —  and  the  student 
continued, 

"  And  so  life  frets  itself  away !  Four  years  have 
passed  over  our  seclusion, — four  years! — a  great  seg- 
ment in  the  little  circle  of  our  mortality ;  and  of  those 
years,  what  day  has  pleasure  won  from  labor,  or  what 
night  has  sleep  snatched  wholly  from  the  lamp  'I  Weaker 
than  the  miser,  the  insatiable  and  restless  mind  traverses 
from  east  to  west ;  and  from  the  nooks  and  corners  and 
crevices  of  earth  collects,  fragment  by  fragment,  grain 
by  grain,  atom  by  atom,  the  riches  which  it  gathers  to 
its  coffers, — for  what?  —  to  starve  amidst  the  plenty! 
The  fantasies  of  the  imagination  bring  a  ready  and  sub- 
stantial return,  —  not  so  the  treasures  of  thought.  Better 
that  I  had  renounced  the  soul's  labor  for  that  of  its 
hardier  frame ;  better  that  I  had  *  sweated  in  the  eye  of 
Phoebus,'  than  '  eat  my  heart  with  crosses  and  with 
cares,' — seeking  truth  and  wanting  bread;  adding  to 
the  indigence  of  poverty  its  humiliation;  wroth  with 
the  arrogance  of  men,  who  weigh  in  the  shallow  scales 
of  their  meagre  knowledge  the  product  of  lavish  thought, 
and  of  the  hard  hours  for  which  health  and  sleep  and 
spirit  have  been  exchanged ;  sharing  the  lot  of  those  who 
would  enchant  the  old  serpent  of  evil,  which  refuses  the 
voice  of  the  charmer!  —  struggling  against  the  prejudice 
and  bigoted  delusion  of  the  bandaged  and  fettered  herd 
to  whom,  in  our  fond  hopes  and  aspirations,  we  trusted 


262  THE   DISOWNED. 

to  give  light  and  freedom;  seeing  the  sla\'ish  judgments 
we  would  have  redeemed  from  error  clashing  their  cliains 
at  us  in  ire;  made  criminal  by  our  very  benevolence: 
the  martyrs  whose  zeal  is  rewarded  with  persecution, 
whose  prophecies  are  crowned  with  contempt!  Better, 
oh,  better  that  I  had  not  listened  to  the  vanity  of  a 
heated  brain,  —  better  that  I  had  made  my  home  with 
the  lark  and  the  wild  bee,  among  the  fields  and  the 
quiet  hills,  where  life,  if  obscurer,  is  less  debased,  and 
hope,  if  less  eagerly  indulged,  is  less  bitterly  disap- 
pointed. The  frame,  it  is  true,  might  have  been  bowed 
to  a  harsher  labor ;  but  the  heart  would  at  least  have 
had  its  rest  from  anxiety,  and  the  mind  its  relaxation 
from  thought." 

The  wife's  tears  fell  upon  the  hand  she  clasped.  The 
student  turned,  and  his  heart  smote  him  for  the  selfish- 
ness of  his  complaints.  He  drew  her  closer  and  closer 
to  his  bosom;  and  gazing  fondly  upon  those  eyes  which 
years  of  indigence  and  care  might  have  robbed  of  their 
young  lustre,  but  not  of  their  undying  tenderness,  he 
kissed  away  her  tears  and  addressed  her  in  a  voice  which 
never  failed  to  charm  her  grief  into  forgetfulness. 

"  Dearest  and  kindest,"  he  said,  "  was  I  not  to  blame 
for  accusing  those  privations  or  regrets  which  have  only 
made  us  love  each  other  the  more!  Trust  me,  mine  own 
treasure,  that  it  is  only  in  the  peevishness  of  an  incon- 
stant and  fretful  humor,  that  I  have  murmured  against 
my  fortune.  For,  in  the  midst  of  all,  I  look  upon  you, 
my  angel,  my  comforter,  my  young  dream  of  love,  which 
God,  in  his  mercy,  breathed  into  waking  life,  —  I  look 
upon  you,  and  am  blessed  and  grateful.  Nor  in  my  juster 
moments  do  I  accuse  even  the  nature  of  these  studies, 
though  they  bring  us  so  scanty  a  reward.  Have  I  not 
hours  of  secret  and  overflowing  delight,  the  triumphs  of 


THE   DISOWNED.  263 

gratified  research,  —  flashes  of  sudden  light,  which  re- 
ward the  darlcness  of  thought,  and  light  up  my  solitude 
as  a  revel  1  These  feelings  of  rapture,  which  nought 
hut  science  can  afford,  amply  repay  her  disciples  for 
worse  evils  and  severer  hardships  than  it  has  heen  my 
destiny  to  endure.  Look  along  the  sky ,  —  how  the 
vapors  struggle  with  the  still  yet  feeble  stars :  even  so 
have  the  mists  of  error  been  pierced,  though  not  scat- 
tered by  the  dim  but  holy  lights  of  past  wisdom;  and 
now  the  morning  is  at  hand,  and  in  that  hope  we  jour- 
ney on,  doubtful,  but  not  utterly  in  darkness.  Nor  is 
this  all  mi/ho-pe;  there  is  a  loftier  and  more  steady 
comfort  than  that  which  mere  philosophy  can  bestow. 
If  the  certainty  of  future  fame  bore  Milton  rejoicing 
through  his  blindness,  or  cheered  Galileo  in  his  dun- 
geon, what  stronger  and  holier  support  shall  not  be 
given  to  hi7n  who  has  loved  mankind  as  his  brothers, 
and  devoted  his  labors  to  their  cause  ?  —  who  has  not 
sought,  but  relinquished,  his  own  renown  1  —  who  has 
braved  the  present  censures  of  men  for  their  future 
benefit,  and  trampled  upon  glory  in  the  energy  of  be- 
nevolence 1  Will  there  not  be  for  him  something  more 
powerful  than  fame  to  comfort  his  sufferings  and  to  sus- 
tain his  hopes  1  If  the  wish  of  mere  posthumous  honor 
be  a  feeling  rather  vain  than  exalted,  the  love  of  our 
race  affords  us  a  more  rational  and  noble  desire  of  re- 
membrance. Come  what  will,  that  love,  if  it  animates 
our  toils,  and  directs  our  studies,  shall,  when  we  are 
dust,  make  our  relics  of  value,  our  efforts  of  avail,  and 
consecrate  the  desire  of  fame,  which  were  else  a  passion 
selfish  and  impure,  by  connecting  it  with  the  welfare 
of  ages,  and  tlie  eternal  interests  of  the  world  and  its 
Creator'.     Come,  we  will  to  bed." 


264  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A  mau  may  be  formed  by  uature  for  an  admirable  citizen,  and  yet, 
from  the  purest  inotives,  be  a  dangerous  one  to  the  State  in  which 
the  accident  of  birth  has  placed  him.  —  Stephen  Montague. 

The  night  again  closed,  and  the  student  once  more 
resumed  his  labors.  The  spirit  of  his  hope  and  com- 
forter of  his  toils  sat  by  him,  ever  and  anon  lifting  her 
fond  eyes  from  her  work  to  gaze  upon  his  counte- 
nance, to  sigh,  and  to  return  sadly  and  quietly  to  her 
employment. 

A  heavy  step  ascended  the  stairs,  the  door  opened, 
and  the  tall  figure  of  Wolfe,  the  republican,  presented 
itself.  The  female  rose,  pushed  a  chair  towards  him 
with  a  smile  and  grace  suited  to  better  fortunes,  and, 
retiring  from  the  table,  reseated  herself  silent  and 
apart. 

"  It  is  a  fine  night,"  said  the  student,  when  the  mutual 
greetings  were  over.      "  Whence  come  you  1  " 

"  From  contemplating  human  misery  and  worse  than 
human  degradation,"  replied  Wolfe,  slowly  seating 
himself. 

"Those  words  specify  no  place,  —  they  apply  univer- 
sally," said  the  student,   with  a  sigh. 

"Ay,  Glendower,  for  misgovernment  is  universal," 
rejoined  Wolfe. 

Glendower  made  no  answer. 

"Oh!"  said  Wolfe,  in  the  low,  suppressed  tone  of 
intense  passion  which  was  customary  to  him,  "  it  mad- 


THE  DISOWNED.  265 

dens  me  to  look  upon  the  willingness  with  which  men 
hug  their  trappings  of  slavery,  — bears,  proud  of  the  rags 
which  deck,  and  the  monkeys  which  ride  them.  But  it 
frets  me  yet  more  wlien  some  lordling  sweeps  along, 
lifting  his  dull  eyes  above  the  fools  whose  only  crime 
and  debasement  are  —  what?  —  their  subjection  to  him  ! 
Such  an  one  I  encountered  a  few  nights  since ;  and  he 
will  remember  the  meeting  longer  than  I  shall.  I 
taught  that  *  god  to  tremble. '  " 

The  female  rose,  glanced  towards  her  husband,  and 
silently  Avithdrew. 

Wolfe  paused  for  a  few  moments,  looked  curiously 
and  pryingly  round,  and  then  rising,  went  forth  into  the 
passage  to  see  that  no  loiterer  or  listener  was  near, — 
returned,  and  drawing  his  chair  close  to  Glendower, 
fixed  his  dark  eye  upo"  him,  and  said, — 

"  You  are  poor,  and  your  spirit  rises  against  your  lot; 
you  are  just,  and  your  heart  swells  against  the  general 
oppression  you  behold :  can  you  not  dare  to  remedy  your 
ills  and  those  of  mankind?  " 

"  I  can  dare,"  said  GlendoAver,  calmly,  though  haugh- 
tily, "all  things  but  crime." 

"  And  which  is  crime  1  —  the  rising  against,  or  the 
submission  to  evil  government?  Which  is  crime,  I 
ask  you  ?  " 

"That  which  is  the  most  imprudent,"  answered 
Glendower.  "  We  may  sport  in  ordinary  cases  with  our 
own  safeties,  but  only  in  rare  cases  with  the  safety  of 
others. " 

Wolfe  rose,  and  paced  the  narrow  room  impatientlj'-  to 
and  fro.  He  paused  by  the  window,  and  threw  it  open. 
"  Come  here,"  he  cried,  —  "  come,  and  look  out." 

Glendower  did  so,  — all  was  still  and  quiet, 

"  Why  did  you  call  me  ?  "  said  he;  "  I  see  nothing." 


266  THE    DISOWNED. 

"Nothin<i!"  exclaimed  Wolfe;  "look  again,  —  look 
on  yon  sordid  and  scjualid  huts;  look  at  yon  court,  that 
from  this  wretclied  street  leads  to  abodes  to  which  these 
are  as  palaces;  look  at  yon  victims  of  vice  and  famine, 
plying  beneath  the  midnight  skies  their  filthy  and  in- 
fectious trade.  Wherever  you  turn  your  eyes,  what  see 
you?  —  misery,  loathsomeness,  sin.  Are  you  a  man,  and 
call  you  these  notliing!  And  now  lean  forth  still  more, 
—  see  afar  otf,  by  yonder  lamp,  the  mansion  of  ill- 
gotten  and  griping  wealth.  He  who  owns  those  build- 
ings, what  did  he  that  he  should  riot  while  we  starve  1 
He  wrung  from  the  negro's  tears  and  bloody  sweat  the 
luxuries  of  a  pampered  and  vitiated  taste;  he  pandered 
to  the  excesses  of  the  rich ;  he  heaped  their  tables  with 
the  product  of  a  nation's  groans.  Lo!  his  reward! 
He  is  rich,  prosperous,  honored!  He  sits  in  the  legis- 
lative assembly ;  he  declaims  against  immorality ;  he 
contends  for  the  safety  of  property,  and  the  equilibrium 
of  ranks.  Transport  yourself  from  this  spot  for  an  in- 
stant, —  imagine  that  you  survey  the  gorgeous  homes  of 
aristocracy  and  power,  —  the  palaces  of  the  west.  What 
see  you  there? — 'the  few  sucking,  draining,  exhausting 
the  blood,  the  treasure,  the  very  existence  of  the  many. 
Are  we,  who  are  of  the  many,  wise  to  suffer  it?  " 

"  Are  we  of  the  many  ?  "  said  Glendower. 

"  We  could  be,"  said  Wolfe,  hastily. 

"  I  doubt  it,"  replied  Glendower. 

"  Listen,"  said  the  republican,  laying  his  hand  upon 
Glendower's  shoulder, — "listen  to  me.  There  are  in 
this  country  men  whose  spirits  not  years  of  delayed 
hope,  wearisome  persecution,  and,  bitterer  than  all,  mis- 
representation from  some  and  contem])t  from  others,  have 
yet  quelled  and  tamed.  We  watch  our  opportunity  ;  the 
growing  distress  of  the  country,  the  increasing  severity 


THE   DISOWNED.  267 

and  misrule  of  the  administration,  will  soon  afford  it  us. 
Your  talents,  your  benevolence,  render  you  worthy  to 
join  us.     Do  so,  and  —  " 

"Hush!"  interrupted  the  student;  "you  know  not 
what  you  say:  you  weigh  not  the  folly,  the  madness  of 
your  design!  I  am  a  man  more  fallen,  more  sunken, 
more  disappointed  than  you.  I,  too,  have  had  at  my 
heart  the  burning  and  lonely  hope  which,  through  years 
of  misfortune  and  want,  has  comforted  me  with  the 
thought  of  serving  and  enlightening  mankind,  — I,  too, 
have  devoted  to  the  fulfilment  of  that  hope  days  and 
nights  in  which  the  brain  grew  dizzy  and  the  heart 
heavy  and  clogged  with  the  intensity  of  my  pursuits. 
Were  the  dungeon  and  the  scaffold  my  reward,  Heaven 
knows  that  I  would  not  flinch  eye  or  hand,  or  abate  a 
jot  of  heart  and  hope  in  the  thankless  prosecution  of  my 
toils.  Know  me,  then,  as  one  of  fortunes  more  des- 
perate than  your  own ;  of  an  ambition  more  unquench- 
able; of  a  philanthropy  no  less  ardent;  and,  I  xvill  add, 
of  a  courage  no  less  firm,  —  and  behold  the  utter  hopeless- 
ness of  your  projects  with  others,  when  to  me  they  only 
appear  the  visions  of  an  enthusiast. " 

Wolfe  sank  down  in  the  chair. 

"  Is  it  even  so  ?  "  said  he,  slowly  and  musingly.  "  Are 
my  hopes  but  delusions'?  Has  my  life  been  but  one 
idle,  thougfi  convulsive  dream?  Is  the  goddess  of  our 
religion  banished  from  this  great  and  populous  earth,  to 
the  seared  and  barren  hearts  of  a  few  solitary  worship- 
pers whom  all  else  despise  as  madmen  or  persecute  as 
idolaters?  And  if  so,  shall  we  adore  her  the  less? 
No!  though  we  perish  in  her  cause,  it  is  around  her 
altar  that  our  corpses  shall  be  found !  " 

"  My  friend,"  said  Glendower,  kindly,  for  he  was 
touched  by  the  sincerity,  though  opposed  to  the   opin- 


268  THE   DISOWNED. 

ions  of  the  republican,  "  the  night  is  yet  early;  we  will 
sit  down  to  discuss  our  several  doctrines  calmly,  and  in 
the  spirit  of  truth  and  investigation." 

"Away!"  cried  Wolfe,  rising  and  slouching  his  hat 
over  his  bent  and  lowering  brows,  —  "away!  I  will 
not  listen  to  you ;  I  dread  your  reasonings,  —  I  would 
not  have  a  particle  of  my  faith  shaken.  If  I  err,  I 
have  erred  from  my  birth:  erred  with  Brutus  and  Tell, 
Hampden  and  Milton,  and  all  whom  the  thousand  tribes 
and  parties  of  earth  consecrate  with  their  common  grati- 
tude and  eternal  reverence.  In  that  error  I  will  die! 
If  our  party  can  struggle  not  with  hosts,  there  may  yet 
arise  some  minister  with  the  ambition  of  Caesar,  if  not 
his  genius,  of  whom  a  single  dagger  can  rid  the  earth!  " 

"  And  if  not!  "  said  Glendower. 

"  I  have  the  same  dagger  for  myself!  "  replied  Wolfe, 
as  he  closed  the  door. 


THE   DISOWNED.  269 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

Bolingbroke  has  said  that,  "  Mau  is  his  own  sharper  and  his  own 
bubble ; "  and  certainly  he  who  is  acutest  in  duping  otliei's  is 
ever  the  most  ingenious  in  outwitting  himself.  The  criminal 
is  always  a  sophist,  and  finds  in  his  own  reason  a  special  pleader 
to  twist  laws  human  and  divine  into  a  sanction  of  his  crime. 
The  rogue  is  so  much  in  the  habit  of  cheating,  that  he  packs  the 
cards  even  when  playing  at  Patience  with  himself.  —  Stephen 
Montague. 

The  only  two  acquaintances  in  this  populous  city 
whom  Glendower  possessed,  who  were  aware  that  in  a 
former  time  he  had  known  a  better  fortune,  were  Wolfe, 
and  a  person  of  far  higher  worldly  estimation,  of  the 
name  of  Crauford.  With  the  former,  the  student  had 
become  acquainted  by  the  favor  of  chance,  which  had 
for  a  short  time  made  them  lodgers  in  the  same  house. 
Of  the  particulars  of  Glendower's  earliest  history, 
Wolfe  was  utterly  ignorant;  but  the  addresses  upon 
some  old  letters  which  he  had  accidentally  seen,  had 
informed  him  that  Glendower  had  formerly  borne  an- 
other name, —  and  it  was  easy  to  glean  from  the  student's 
conversation  that  something  of  greater  distinction  and 
prosperity  than  he  now  enjoyed  was  coupled  Avith  the 
appellation  he  had  renounced.  Proud,  melancholy, 
austere,  —  brooding  upon  thoughts  whose  very  loftiness 
received  somewhat  of  additional  grandeur  from  the 
gloom  which  encircled  it,  —  Glendower  fotmd,  in  the 
ruined  hopes  and  the  solitary  lot  of  the  republican,  that 
congeniality  which  neither  Wolfe's  habits,  nor  the  ex- 
cess  of   his   political  fervor,  might  have  afforded  to  a 


270  THE    DISOWNED. 

nature  which  philosophy  had  renderod  moderate  and 
early  circuiustance.s  refined.  Crauford  was  far  l)etter  ac- 
quainted than  Wolfe  with  the  reverses  Glendower  had 
undergone.  Many  years  ago,  he  had  known,  and  indeed 
travelled  with  him  upon  the  Continent;  since  then, 
they  had  not  met  till  about  six  months  prior  to  the 
time  in  which  Glendower  is  presented  to  the  reader.  It 
was  in  an  obscure  street  of  the  city  that  Crauford  had 
then  encountered  Glendower,  whose  haunts  were  so  little 
frequented  by  the  higher  orders  of  society  that  Crauford 
was  the  first,  and  the  only  one,  of  his  former  acquaint- 
ance with  whom  for  years  he  had  been  brought  into  con- 
tact. That  person  recognized  him  at  once,  accosted 
him,  followed  him  home,  and  three  days  afterwards,  sur- 
prised him  with  a  visit.  Of  manners  which,  in  their 
dissimulation,  extended  far  beyond  the  ordinary  ease 
and  breeding  of  the  world,  Crauford  readily  appeared  not 
to  notice  the  altered  circumstances  of  his  old  acquaint- 
ance; and  by  a  tone  of  conversation  artfully  respectful, 
he  endeavored  to  remove  from  Glendower's  mind  that 
soreness  Avhich  his  knowledge  of  human  nature  told 
him  his  visit  was  calculated  to  create. 

There  is  a  certain  species  of  pride  which  contradicts 
the  ordinary  symptoms  of  the  feeling,  and  appears  most 
elevated  when  it  would  be  reasonable  to  expect  it  should 
be  most  depressed.  Of  this  sort  was  Glendower's. 
When  he  received  the  guest  who  had  known  him  in 
his  former  prosperity,  some  natural  sentiment  of  emotion 
called,  it  is  true,  to  his  pale  cheek  a  momentary  flush, 
as  he  looked  round  his  humble  apartment,  and  the  evi- 
dent signs  of  poverty  it  contained ;  but  his  address  was 
calm  and  self-possessed,  and  whatever  mortification  he 
might  have  felt,  no  intonation  of  his  voice,  no  tell-tale 
embarrassment  of  manner,  revealed  it.     Encouraged  by 


THE   DISOWNED.  271 

this  air,  even  while  he  was  secretly  vexed  by  it,  and 
perfectly  luiable  to  do  justice  to  the  dignity  of  mind 
which  gave  something  of  majesty,  rather  than  humilia- 
tion, to  misfortune,  Crauford  resolved  to  repeat  his  visit, 
and  by  intervals,  gradually  lessening,  renewed  it,  till 
acquaintance  seemed,  though  little  tinctured,  at  least  on 
Glendower's  side,  by  frieridship,  to  assume  the  sem- 
blance of  iritimaci/.  It  was  true,  however,  that  he  had 
something  to  struggle  against  in  Glendower's  manner, 
which  certainly  grew  colder  in  proportion  to  the  repeti- 
tion of  the  visits;  and  at  length  Glendower  said,  with 
an  ease  and  quiet  which  abashed,  for  a  moment,  an 
effrontery  both  of  mind  and  manner  which  was  almost 
parallel,  "  Believe  me,  Mr.  Crauford,  I  feel  fully  sen- 
sible of  your  attentions;  but  as  circumstances  at  present 
are  such  as  to  render  an  intercourse  between  us  little 
congenial  to  the  habits  and  sentiments  of  eitlier,  you 
will  probably  understand  and  forgive  my  motives  in 
wishing  no  longer  to  receive  civilities  which,  however 
I  may  feel  tliem,  I  am  unable  to  return." 

Crauford  colored,  and  hesitated,  before  he  replied: 
"Forgive  me  then,"  said  he,  "for  my  fault.  1  did 
venture  to  hope  that  no  circumstances  would  break  off 
an  acquaintance  to  me  so  valuable.  Forgive  me  if  I  did 
imagine  that  an  intercourse  between  mind  and  mind 
could  be  equally  carried  on,  whether  the  mere  body 
were  lodged  in  a  palace  or  a  hovel ;  "  and  then  suddenly 
changing  his  tone  into  that  of  affectionate  warmth,  Crau- 
ford continued:  "My  dear  Glendower,  my  dear  friend, 
I  Avould  say,  if  I  durst,  is  not  your  pride  rather  to 
blame  here  1  Believe  me,  in  my  turn,  I  fully  compre- 
hend and  bow  to  it ;  but  it  wounds  me  beyond  expression. 
Were  you  in  your  proper  station,  a  station  much  higher 
than  my  own ,  I  would  come  to  you  at  once  and   proffer 


272  THE    DISOWNED. 

my  friendsliip, — as  it  is,  I  cannot;  hnt  your  priile 
wrongs  me,  Glendower,  —  indeed  it  does." 

And  Crauford  turned  away,  apparently  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  wounded  feeling. 

Glendower  was  touched ;  and  his  nature,  as  kind  as  it 
was  proud,  immediately  smote  him  for  conduct  certainly 
ungracious,  and  perhaps  ungrateful.  He  held  out  his 
hand  to  Crauford;  with  the  most  respectful  warmth, 
that  personage  seized  and  pressed  it;  and  from  that  time 
Crauford's  visits  appeared  to  receive  a  license  which, 
if  not  perfectly  welcome,  was  at  least  never  again 
questioned. 

"I  shall  have  this  man  now,"  muttered  Crauford, 
between  his  ground  teeth,  as  he  left  the  house  and  took 
his  way  to  his  counting-house.  There,  cool,  bland, 
fawning,  and  weaving  in  his  close  and  dark  mind  various 
speculations  of  guilt  and  craft,  he  sat  among  his  bills 
and  gold,  like  the  very  gnome  and  personification  of  that 
Mammon  of  gain  to  which  he  was  the  most  supple, 
though  concealed,  adherent. 

Richard  Crauford  was  of  a  new  but  not  unimportant 
family.  His  father  had  entered  into  commerce,  and  left 
a  flourishing  firm,  and  a  name  of  great  respectability  in 
his  profession,  to  his  son.  That  son  was  a  man  whom 
many  and  opposite  qualities  rendered  a  character  of 
very  singular  and  uncommon  stamp.  Fond  of  the  la- 
borious acquisition  of  money,  he  was  equally  attached 
to  the  ostentatious  pageantries  of  expense.  Profoundl}'- 
skilled  in  the  calculating  business  of  his  profession,  he 
was  devoted  equally  to  the  luxuries  of  pleasure;  but 
the  pleasure  was  suited  well  to  the  mind  which  pursued 
it.  The  divine  intoxication  of  that  love  where  the  de- 
licacies and  purities  of  affection  consecrate  the  humanity 
of  passion,  was  to  him  a  thing  of  which  not  even  his 


THE   DISOWNED.  273 

youngest  imagination  had  ever  dreamed.  The  social 
concomitants  of  the  wine-cup  (which  have  for  the  lenient 
an  excuse,  for  the  austere  a  temptation),  the  generous 
expanding  of  the  heart,  the  increased  yearning  to  kindly 
atfection,  the  lavish  spirit  throwing  off  its  exuberance  in 
the  thousand  lights  and  emanations  of  wit,  —  these, 
•which  have  rendered  the  molten  grape,  despite  of  its 
excesses,  not  unworthy  of  the  praises  of  immortal  hymns, 
and  taken  harshness  from  the  judgment  of  those  averse 
to  its  enjoyment:  these  never  presented  an  inducement 
to  the  stony  temperament  and  dormant  heart  of  Richard 
Crauford. 

He  looked  upon  the  essences  of  things  internal  as 
the  common  eye  upon  outward  nature,  and  loved  the 
many  shapes  of  evil  as  the  latter  does  the  varieties  of 
earth,  not  for  their  graces,  but  their  utility.  His  loves, 
coarse  and  low,  fed  their  rank  fires  from  an  unmingled 
and  gross  depravity.  His  devotion  to  wine  was  either 
solitary  and  unseen,  —  for  he  loved  safety  better  than 
mirth, —  or  in  company  with  those  whose  station  flattered 
his  vanity,  not  whose  fellowship  ripened  his  crude  and 
nipped  affections.  Even  the  recklessness  of  vice  in  him 
had  the  character  of  prudence;  and  in  the  most  rapid 
and  turbulent  stream  of  his  excesses,  one  might  detect 
the  rocky  and  unmoved  heart  of  the  calculator  at  the 
bottom. 

Cool,  sagacious,  profound  in  dissimulation,  and  not 
only  observant  of,  but  deducing  sage  consequences  from 
those  human  inconsistencies  and  frailties  by  which  it 
was  his  aim  to  profit,  he  cloaked  his  deeper  vices  witli 
a  masterly  hypocrisy ;  and  for  those,  too  dear  to  forego 
and  too  difficult  to  conceal,  he  obtained  pardon  by  the 
intercession  of  virtues  it  cost  him  nothing  to  assume. 
Regular  in  his  attendance  at  worship;  professing  rigid* 

VOL.  I.  — 18 


274  THE   DISOWNED. 

ness  of  faith  beyond  the  tenets  of  the  orthodox  church ; 
subscribing  to  the  public  charities,  where  the  common 
eye  knoweth  what  the  private  hand  giveth ;  methodically 
constant  to  the  forms  of  business;  jirimitively  scrupu- 
lous in  the  proprieties  of  speech;  hospitable,  at  least  to 
his  superiors;  and  being  naturally  smooth,  both  of 
temper  and  address,  popular  with  his  inferiors,  —  it 
was  no  marvel  that  one  part  of  the  world  forgave,  to  a 
man  rich  and  young,  the  irregularities  of  dissipation; 
that  another  forgot  real  immorality  in  favor  of  affected 
religion, —  or  that  the  remainder  allowed  the  most  unex- 
ceptionable excellence  of  words  to  atone  for  the  unob- 
trusive errors  of  a  conduct  which  did  not  prejudice 
them. 

"It  is  true,"  said  his  friends,  "  that  he  loves  Avomen 
too  much ;  but  he  is  young, —  he  will  marry  and  amend. " 

Mr.  Crauford  did  marry ;  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
for  love,  —  at  least  for  that  brute-like  love  of  which 
alone  he  was  capable.  After  a  few  years  of  ill-usage  on 
his  side,  and  endurance  on  his  wife's,  they  parted. 
Tired  of  her  person,  and  profiting  by  her  gentleness  of 
temper,  he  sent  her  to  an  obscure  corner  of  the  country, 
to  starve  upon  the  miserable  pittance  which  was  all  he 
allowed  her  from  his  superfluities.  Even  then  —  such 
is  the  effect  of  the  showy  proprieties  of  form  and  word  — 
Mr.  Crauford  sank  njt  in  the  estimation  of  the  world. 

"  It  was  easy  to  see,"  said  tlie  spectators  of  his  domes- 
tic drama,  "  that  a  man  in  temper  so  mild,  in  his  business 
so  honorable,  so  civil  of  speech,  so  attentive  to  the  stocks 
and  the  sermon,  could  not  have  been  the  party  to 
blame.  One  never  knew  the  rights  of  matrimonial 
disagreements,  nor  could  sufiiciently  estimate  the  pro- 
voking disparities  of  temper.  Certainly,  Mrs.  Crauford 
never  did  look    in  good  humor,  and  had  not  the  open 


THE    DISOWNED.  275 

countenance  of  her  husband;  and  certainly  the  very  ex- 
cesses of  Mr.  Crauford  betokened  a  generous  warmth  of 
heart,  which  the  suUenness  of  his  conjugal  partner 
might  easily  chill  and  revolt." 

And  thus,  unquestioned  and  unblamed,  Mr.  Crauford 
walked  onward  in  his  beaten  way;  and,  secretly  laugh- 
ing at  the  toleration  of  the  crowd,  continued  at  his 
luxurious  villa  the  orgies  of  a  passionless  yet  brutal 
sensuality. 

So  far  might  the  character  of  Eichard  Crauford  find 
parallels  in  hypocrisy  and  its  success.  Dive  we  now 
deeper  into  his  soul.  Possessed  of  talents  which,  though 
of  a  secondary  rank,  were  in  that  rank  consummate,  ]Mr. 
Crauford  could  not  be  a  villain  by  intuition,  or  the 
irregular  bias  of  his  nature;  he  was  a  villain  upon  a 
grander  scale:  he  was  a  villain  upon  system.  Having 
little  learning  and  less  knowledge,  out  of  his  profession, 
his  reflection  expended  itself  upon  apparently  obvious 
deductions  from  the  great  and  mysterious  book  of  life. 
He  saw  vice  prosperous  in  externals,  and  from  this  sight 
his  conclusion  was  drawn.  "  Vice,"  said  he,  "  is  not  an 
obstacle  to  success;  and,  if  so,  it  is  at  least  a  pleasanter 
road  to  it  than  your  narrow  and  thorny  ways  of  virtue. " 
But  there  are  certain  vices  which  require  the  mask  of 
virtue,  and  Crauford  thought  it  easier  to  wear  the  mask 
than  to  school  his  soul  to  the  reality.  So  to  the  villain 
he  added  the  hypocrite.  He  found  the  success  equalled 
his  hopes ;  for  he  had  both  craft  and  genius,  —  nor  was 
he,  naturally,  without  the  minor  amiabilities,  which,  to 
the  ignorance  of  the  herd,  seem  more  valuable  than  coin 
of  a  more  important  amount.  Blinded  as  we  are  by 
prejudice,  we  not  only  mistake,  but  prefer  decencies  to 
moralities;  and  like  the  inhabitants  of  Cos  when  of- 
fered the  choice  of  two  statues  of  the  same  goddess,  we 


276  THE   DISOWNED. 

choose,  not  that  whicli  is  the  most  beautiful,  but  that 
which  is  the  most  dressed. 

Accustomed  easily  to  dupe  mankind,  Crauford  soon 
grew  to  despise  them;  and  from  justifying  roguery  by 
-his  own  interest,  he  now  justified  it  by  the  folly  of 
others;  and  as  no  wretch  is  so  unredeemed  as  to  be 
without  excuse  to  himself,  Crauford  actually  persuaded 
his  reason  that  he  was  vicious  upon  principle,  and  a 
rascal  on  a  system  of  morality.  But  why  the  desire  of 
this  man,  so  consummately  worldly  and  heartless,  for 
an  intimacy  with  the  impoverished  ami  powerless  stu- 
dent? This  question  is  easily  answered.  In  the  first 
place,  during  Crauford's  acquaintance  with  Glendower 
abroad,  the  latter  had  often,  though  innocently,  galled 
tlie  vanity  and  self-pride  of  the  parvenu  affecting  the 
aristocrat,  and  in  poverty  the  parvenu  was  anxious  to 
retaliate.  But  this  desire  would  probably  have  passed 
away  after  he  had  satisfied  his  curiosity,  or  gloated 
his  spite,  by  one  or  two  insights  into  Glendower's  home, 
—  for  Crauford,  though  at  times  a  malicious,  was  not  a 
vindictive  man, —  had  it  not  been  for  a  much  more  pow- 
erful object  which  afterwards  occurred  to  him.  In  an 
extensive  scheme  of  fraud,  which  for  many  years  this 
man  had  carried  on,  and  which  for  secrecy  and  boldness 
was  almost  unequalled,  it  had  of  late  become  necessary 
to  his  safety  to  have  a  partner,  or  rather  tool.  A  man  of 
education,  talent,  and  courage  was  indispensable,  and 
Crauford  had  resolved  that  Glendower  should  be  that 
man.  With  the  supreme  confidence  in  his  own  powers 
which  long  success  had  given  him;  with  a  sovereign 
contempt  for,  or  rather  disbelief  in  human  integrity; 
and  with  a  thorough  conviction,  that  the  bribe  to  him 
was  the  bribe  with  all ,  and  that  none  could  on  any  ac- 
count be  poor  if  they  had  the  ofier  to  be  rich ,  —  Crauford 


THE   DISOWNED.  277 

did  not  bestow  a  moment's  consideration  upon  the  diffi- 
culty of  his  task,  or  conceive  that  in  the  nature  and 
mind  of  Glendower  there  could  exist  any  obstacle  to 
his  design. 

Men  addicted  to  calculation  are  accustomed  to  suppose 
those  employed  in  the  same  mental  pursuit  arrive,  or 
ought  to  arrive,  at  the  same  final  conclusion.  Xow, 
looking  upon  Glendower  as  a  philosopher,  Crauford 
looked  upon  him  as  a  man  who,  however  he  might  con- 
ceal his  real  opinions,  secretly  laughed  like  Crauford's 
self,  not  only  at  the  established  customs,  but  at  the  estab- 
lished moralities  of  the  world.  Ill  acquainted  with 
books,  the  worthy  Richard  was,  like  all  men  similarly 
situated,  somewhat  infected  by  the  very  prejudices  he 
affected  to  despise ;  and  he  shared  the  vulgar  disposition 
to  doubt  the  hearts  of  those  who  cultivate  the  head. 
Glendower  himself  had  confirmed  this  opinion  by  laud- 
ing, though  he  did  not  entirely  subscribe  to  those  moral- 
ists who  have  made  an  enlightened  self-interest  the 
proper  measure  of  all  human  conduct;  and  Crauford, 
utterly  unable  to  comprehend  this  system  in  its  grand, 
naturally  interpreted  it  in  a  partial  sense.  Espousing 
self-interest  as  his  own  code,  he  deemed  that  in  reality 
Glendower's  principles  did  not  differ  greatly  from  his; 
and  as  there  is  no  pleasure  to  a  hypocrite  like  that  of 
finding  a  fit  opportunity  to  unburden  some  of  his  real 
sentiments,  Crauford  was  occasionally  wont  to  hold 
some  conference  and  argument  with  the  student,  in 
which  his  opinions  were  not  utterly  cloaked  in  their 
usual  disguise;  but  cautious  even  in  his  candor,  he 
always  forbore  stating  such  opinions  as  his  own:  he 
merely  mentioned  them  as  those  which  a  man,  behold- 
ing the  villanies  and  follies  of  his  kind  might  be  tempted 
to   form;    and    thus    Glendower,    though    not    greatly 


278  THE   DISOWNED. 

esteeming  his  acquaintance,  looked  npon  him  as  one 
ignorant  in  his  opinions,  but  not  likely  to  err  in  his 
conduct. 

These  conversations  did,  however,  it  is  true,  increase 
Crauford's  estimate  of  Glendower's  integrity,  hut  they 
by  no  means  diminished  his  confidence  of  subduing  it. 
Honor,  a  deep  and  pure  sense  of  the  divinity  of  good, 
the  steady  desire  of  rectitude,  and  the  supporting  aid  of 
a  sincere  religion,  —  these  he  did  not  deny  to  his  in- 
tended tool ;  he  rather  rejoiced  that  he  possessed  them. 
With  the  profound  arrogance,  the  sense  of  immeasurable 
superiority  which  men  of  no  principle  invariably  feel  for 
those  who  have  it,  Crauford  said  to  himself,  "  Those  very 
virtues  will  be  my  best  dupes,  —  they  cannot  resist  the 
temptations  I  shall  offer,  but  they  can  resist  any  offer  to 
betray  me  afterwards,  for  no  man  can  resist  hunger;  but 
your  fine  feelings,  your  nice  honor,  your  precise  religion, 
—  he !  he !  he !  —  these  can  teach  a  man  very  well  to  resist 
a  common  inducement:  they  cannot  make  him  submit  to 
be  his  own  executioner;  but  they  can  prevent  his  turn- 
ing king's  evidence,  and  being  executioner  to  another. 
No,  no;  it  is  not  to  your  common  rogues  that  I  may  dare 
trust  my  secret,  —  my  secret,  which  is  my  life!  It  is 
precisely  of  such  a  fine,  Athenian,  moral  rogue  as  I 
shall  make  my  proud  friend,  that  T  am  in  want.  But 
he  has  some  silly  scruples ;  we  must  beat  them  away. 
We  must  not  be  too  rash;  and,  above  all,  we  must  leave 
the  best  argument  to  poverty.  Want  is  your  finest  ora- 
tor :  a  starving  wife ,  a  famished  brat ,  —  he !  he !  —  these 
are  your  true  tempters,  your  true  fathers  of  crime,  and 
fillers  of  jails  and  gibbets.  Let  me  see:  he  has  no 
money,  I  know,  but  Avhat  he  gets  from  that  bookseller. 
What  bookseller,  by  the  by?  Ah,  rare  thought!  I  'U 
find  out,  and  cut  off  that  supply.     My  lady  wife's  cheek 


THE   DISOWNED.  279 

will  look  somewhat  thinner  next  month,  I  fancy,  — 
he!  he!  But  't  is  a  pity,  for  she  is  a  glorious  creature! 
Who  knows  but  I  may  serve  two  purposes?  However, 
one  at  present!  business  first  and  pleasure  afterwards, 
—  and  faith,  the  business  is  damnably  like  that  of  life 
and  death. " 

Muttering  such  thoughts  as  these,  Crauford  took  his 
way  one  evening  to  Glendower's  house. 


280  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

lago.  —  Virtue  ;  a  fig  !  —  't  is  iu  ourselves  that  we  are  thus  and  thus. 

Othello. 

"  So,  so,  my  little  one,  don't  let  me  disturb  you. 
Madam,  dare  I  venture  to  hope  your  acceptance  of  this 
fruit?  I  chose  it  myself,  and  I  am  somewhat  of  a 
judge.  Oh!  Glendower,  here  is  the  pamphlet  you 
wished  to  see." 

With  this  salutation,  Crauford  drew  his  chair  to  the 
table  by  which  Glendower  sat,  and  entered  into  con- 
versation with  his  purposed  victim.  A  comely  and  a 
pleasing  countenance  had  Richard  Crauford !  —  the  lonely 
light  of  the  room  fell  upon  a  face  which,  though  forty 
years  of  guile  had  gone  over  it,  was  as  fair  and  un- 
wrinkled  as  a  boy's.  Small,  well-cut  features,  a  bloom- 
ing complexion,  eyes  of  the  lightest  blue,  a  forehead 
high,  though  narrow,  and  a  mouth  from  which  the  smile 
was  never  absent:  these,  joined  to  a  manni-T  at  once  soft 
and  confident,  and  an  elegant,  though  unaffected  study 
of  dress,  gave  to  Crauford  a  personal  appearance  well 
suited  to  aid  the  effect  of  his  hypocritical  and  dissem- 
bling mind. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "always  at  your  books, 
eh!  Ah!  it  is  a  happy  taste:  would  that  I  had  culti- 
vated it  more;  Init  we,  who  are  condemned  to  business, 
have  little  leisure  to  follow  our  own  inclinations.  It  is 
only  on  Sundays  that  I  have  time  to  read;  and  then 
(to  say  truth,  I  am  an  old-fashioned  man  whom  the 
gayer  part  of  the  world  laughs  at),  — and  then  I  am  too 


THE   DISOWNED.  281 

occupied  with  the  Book  of  Books  to  think  of  any  less 
important  study." 

Not  deeming  that  a  peculiar  reply  Avas  required  to  this 
pious  speech,  Glendower  did  not  take  that  advantage  of 
Crauford's  pause  which  it  was  evidently  intended  that 
he  should.  With  a  glance  towards  the  student's  wife, 
our  mercantile  friend  continued:  "  I  did  once  —  once,  in 
my  young  dreams,  intend  that  whenever  I  married,  I 
would  relinquish  a  profession  for  which,  after  all,  I  am 
but  little  calculated.  I  pictured  to  myself  a  country 
retreat,  well  stored  with  books;  and  having  concen- 
trated in  one  home  all  the  attractions  which  could  have 
tempted  my  thoughts  abroad,  I  had  designed  to  surren- 
der myself  solely  to  those  studies  which,  I  lament  to 
say,  were  but  ill  attended  to  in  my  earlier  education. 
But  —  but"  (here  Mr.  Crauford  sighed  deeply,  and 
averted  his  face) — "fate  Avilled  it  otherwise." 

Whatever  reply  of  sympathetic  admiration  or  con- 
dolence Glendower  might  have  made,  was  interrupted 
by  one  of  those  sudden  and  overpowering  attacks  of 
faintness  which  had  of  late  seized  the  delicate  and  de- 
clining health  of  his  wife.  He  rose,  and  leaned  over 
her  with  a  fondness  and  alarm  which  curled  the  lip  of 
his  visitor. 

"Thus  it  is,"  said  Crauford  to  himself,  "with  weak 
minds,  under  the  influence  of  habit.  The  love  of  lust 
becomes  the  love  of  custom,  and  the  last  is  as  strong  as 
the  first." 

When  she  had  recovered,  she  rose  and  (with  her 
child)  retired  to  rest,  the  only  restorative  she  ever 
found  eflfectual  for  her  complaint.  Glendower  Avent 
with  her,  and  after  having  seen  her  eyes,  which  swam 
with  tears  of  gratitude  at  his  love,  close  in  the  seeming 
slumber  she  affected  in  order  to  release  him  from  his 


282  THE   DISOWNED. 

watch,  he  returned  to  Crauforcl.  He  found  that  gen- 
tleman leaning  against  the  chimney-piece,  Avith  folded 
arms,  and  apparently  immersed  in  thought.  A  very 
good  opportunity  had  Gleudower's  absence  afforded  to 
a  man  whose  boast  it  was  never  to  lose  one.  Looking 
over  the  papers  on  tlie  table,  he  had  seen  and  possessed 
himself  of  the  address  of  the  bookseller  the  student  dealt 
with.  "  So  nuich  for  business,  —  now  for  pliilanthropy ," 
said  Mr.  Crauford,  in  his  favorite  antithetical  phrase, 
throwing  himself  in  his  attitude  against  the  chimney- 
piece. 

As  Glendower  entered,  Crauford  started  from  his 
reverie,  and  with  a  melancholy  air  and  pensive  voice, 
said ,  — 

"  Alas,  my  friend,  when  I  look  upon  this  humljle 
apartment,  the  weak  health  of  your  unequalled  wife, 
your  obscurity,  your  misfortune,  —  when  I  look  upon 
these,  and  contrast  them  with  your  mind,  your  talents, 
all  that  you  were  bom  and  fitted  for,  I  cannot  but  feel 
tempted  to  believe  with  those  who  imagine  the  pursuit 
of  virtue  a  chimera,  and  who  justify  their  own  worldly 
policy  by  the  example  of  all  their  kind." 

"  Virtue,"  said  Glendower,  "  would  indeed  be  a 
chimera,  did  it  require  support  from  those  whom  you 
have  cited." 

"True,  —  most  true,"  answered  Crauford,  somcwliat 
disconcerted  in  reality,  though  not  in  appearance;  "  and 
yet,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  have  known  some  of  those 
persons  very  good,  admirably  good  men.  They  were 
extremely  moral  and  religious;  they  only  played  the 
great  game  for  worldly  advantages  upon  the  same  terms 
as  the  other  players;  nay,  they  never  made  a  move  in  it 
without  most  fervently  and  sincerely  praying  for  divine 
assistance." 


THE   DISOWNED.  283 

"  I  readily  believe  you,"  said  Glendower,  who  always, 
if  possible,  avoided  a  controversy,  —  "  the  easiest  person 
to  deceive  is  one's  own  self." 

"Admirably  said,"  answered  Crauford,  who  thought 
it,  nevertheless,  one  of  the  most  foolish  observations  he 
had  ever  heard,  —  "  admirably  said !  —  and  yet  my  heart 
does  grieve  bitterly  for  the  trials  and  distresses  it  sur- 
veys. One  must  make  excuses  for  poor  human  frailty ; 
and  one  is  often  placed  in  such  circumstances  as  to  render 
it  scarcely  possible,  without  the  grace  of  God  "  (here 
Crauford  lifted  up  his  eyes),  "not  to  be  urged,  as  it 
were,  into  the  reasonings  and  actions  of  the  world." 

Not  exactly  comprehending  this  observation,  and  not 
very  closely  attending  to  it,  Glendower  merely  bowed, 
as  in  assent,  and  Crauford  continued. 

"  I  remember  a  remarkable  instance  of  this  truth. 
One  of  my  partner's  clerks  had,  through  misfortune  or 
imprudence,  fallen  into  the  greatest  distress.  His  wife, 
his  children  (he  had  a  numerous  family) ,  were  on  the 
literal  and  absolute  verge  of  starvation.  Another  clerk, 
taking  advantage  of  these  circumstances,  communicated 
to  the  distressed  man  a  plan  for  defrauding  his  employer. 
The  poor  fellow  yielded  to  the  temptation,  and  was  at 
last  discovered.  I  spoke  to  him  myself,  for  I  was  in- 
terested in  his  fate,  and  had  always  esteemed  him. 
'What,'  said  I,  'was  your  motive  for  this  fraud?' 
*  My  duty!  '  answered  the  man  fervently,  — '  my  duty! 
Was  I  to  suffer  my  wife,  my  children,  to  starve  before 
my  face,  when  I  could  save  them  at  a  little  personal 
risk?  No,  —  my  diity  forbade  it!' — and  in  truth, 
Glendower,  there  was  something  very  plausible  in  this 
manner  of  putting  the  question." 

"You  might,  in  answering  it,"  said  Glendower, 
"  have   put  the   point  in   a   manner   equally  plausible 


284  THH    DISOWNED. 

and  more  true:  was  he  to  commit  a  great  crime  against 
the  millions  connected  by  social  order,  for  the  sake  of 
serving  a  single  famil}^,  —  and  that  his  ownl" 

"Quite  right,"  answered  Crauford, — "  that  was  just 
the  point  of  view  in  which  I  did  put  it;  but  the  man, 
who  was  something  of  a  reasoner,  replied :  *  Public  law 
is  instituted  for  public  happiness.  Now  if  mine  and 
my  children's  happiness  is  infinitely  and  immeasurably 
more  served  by  this  comparatively  petty  fraud  than  my 
employer's  is  advanced  by  my  abstaining  from,  or  in- 
jured by  my  committing  it,  why,  the  origin  of  law  itself 
allows  me  to  do  it.'  What  say  you  to  that,  Glen- 
dower?  It  is  something  in  your  Utilitarian,  or,  as  you 
term  it,  Epicurean^  principle,  is  it  not?  "  and  Crauford, 
shading  his  eyes,  as  if  from  the  light,  watched  nar- 
rowly Glendower's  countenance,  while  he  concealed  his 
own. 

"  Poor  fool!  "  said  Glendower :  "  the  man  was  ignorant 
of  the  first  lesson  in  his  moral  primer.  ])id  lie  not 
know  that  no  rule  is  to  be  applied  to  a  peculiar  instance, 
but  extended  to  its  most  general  bearings?  Is  it  neces- 
sary even  to  observe  that  the  particular  consequence  of 
fraud  in  this  man  might,  it  is  true,  be  but  tlie  ridding 
his  employer  of  superiluities,  scarcely  missed,  for  the 
relief  of  most  urgent  want  in  two  or  three  individuals; 
but  the  general  consequences  of  fraud  and  trcacliery 
would  be  the  disorganization  of  all  society?  Do  not 
think,  therefore,  that  this  man  was  a  disciple  of  my, 
or  of  any  system  of  morality." 

"  It  is   very  just,  very,"  said  Mr.    Crauford,   with   a 

1  See  the  article  on  Mr.  Moore's  Epicurean,  in  tlie  "  Westmin- 
ster lie  view."  U'hough  the  strictures  on  that  work  are  harsh  aud 
unjust,  yet  the  part  relating  to  the  real  philosophy  of  Epicurus  is 
one  of  the  most  masterly  things  in  criticism. 


THE   DISOWNED.  285 

benevolent  sigh;  "  but  you  will  own  that  want  seldom 
allows  great  nicety  in  moral  distinctions,  and  that,  when 
those  whom  you  love  most  in  the  world  are  starving, 
you  may  be  pitied,  if  not  forgiven,  for  losing  sight  of 
the  after  laws  of  nature,  and  recurring  to  her  first  ordi- 
nance, self-preservation." 

"We  sliould  be  harsh  indeed,"  answered  Glendower, 
"  if  we  did  not  pity ;  or  even  while  the  law  condemned, 
if  the  individual  did  not  forgive. " 

"  So  I  said,  so  I  said,"  cried  Cranford;  "  and  in  in- 
terceding for  the  poor  fellow,  whose  pardon,  I  am  happy 
to  say,  I  procured,  I  could  not  belp  declaring  that,  if  I 
were  placed  in  tlie  aame  circumstauccs,  I  am  not  sure 
that  my  crime  would  not  have  been  the  same." 

"  Xo  man  could  feel  sure!  "  said  Cilendower,  dejectedly. 

Delighted  and  surprised  with  this  confession,  Crauford 
continued:  "  I  believe,  —  I  fear  not.  Thank  God,  owr 
virtue  can  never  be  so  tried ;  but  even  you,  Glendower, 
even  you,  philosopher,  moralist  as  you  are,  — just,  good, 
wise,  religious, — even  you  miglit  be  tempted,  if  you 
saw  j'our  angel  wife  dying  for  want  of  the  aid,  the  very 
sustenance  necessary  to  existence,  and  j'^our  innocent  and 
beautiful  daughter  stretch  her  little  hands  to  you,  and 
cry  in  the  accents  of  famine  for  bread." 

The  student  made  no  reply  for  a  few  moments,  but 
averted  his  countenance,  and  then  in  a  slow  tone  said, 
"  Let  us  drop  this  subject:  none  know  their  strength  till 
they  are  tried;  self-confidence  should  accompany  virtue, 
but  not  precede  it." 

A  momentary  flash  broke  from  the  usually  calm,  cold 
eye  of  Eichard  Crauford.  "He  is  mine,"  thought  he: 
"  the  very  name  of  want  abases  his  pride;  what  will  the 
reality  do?  0  human  nature,  how  I  know  and  mock 
thee!" 


286  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Crauford,  aloud;  "  lot  us  talk 
of  the  pamphlet." 

And  after  a  short  conversation  upon  indifferent  sub- 
jects, the  visitor  departed. 

Early  the  next  morning  was  ]\Ir,  Crauford  seen  on 
foot,  taking  his  way  to  the  bookseller,  whose  address  he 
had  learned.  The  bookseller  was  known  as  a  man  of 
a  strongly  evangelical  bias.  "  We  must  insinuate  a  lie 
or  two,"  said  Crauford,  inly,  "about  Glendower's  prin- 
ciples. He!  he!  it  will  be  a  fine  stroke  of  genius  to 
make  the  upright  tradesman  suffer  Glendower  to  starve, 
out  of  a  principle  of  religion.  But  who  would  have 
thought  my  prey  had  been  so  easily  snared!  —  why,  if  I 
had  proposed  the  matter  last  night,  I  verily  think  he 
would  have  agreed  to  it." 

Amusing  himself  with  these  thoughts,  Crauford  ar- 
rived at  the  bookseller's.  There  he  found  fate  had 
saved  him  from  one  crime  at  least.  The  wliole  house 
was  in  confusion,  —  the  bookseller  had  that  morning 
died  of  an  apoplectic  fit. 

"Good  God!  how  shocking!"  said  Crauford  to  the 
foreman;  "  but  he  was  a  most  worthy  man,  and  Provi- 
dence could  no  longer  spare  him.  The  ways  of  Heaven 
are  inscrutable!  Oblige  me  with  three  copies  of  that 
precious  tract  termed  the  '  Divine  Call. '  I  should  like 
to  be  allowed  permission  to  attend  the  funeral  of  so  ex- 
cellent a  man.  Good-morning,  sir,  —  alas!  alas;"  and, 
shaking  his  head  piteously,  Mr.  Crauford  left  the  shop. 

"Hurrah!"  said  he,  almost  audibly,  when  he  was 
once  more  in  the  street,  —  "  hiirrah!  my  victim  is  made, 
my  game  is  won:  death  or  the  devil  fights  for  me.  But, 
hold :  there  are  other  booksellers  in  this  monstrous  city ! 
—  ay,  but  not  above  two  or  three  in  our  philosopher's 
way.     I  must  forestall  him  there ;  so,  so,  —  that  is  soon 


THE   DISOWNED.  287 

settled.  Xow,  then,  I  must  leave  him,  a  little  while 
undisturbed,  to  his  fate.  Perhaps  my  next  visit  may  be 
to  him  in  jail;  your  debtor's  side  of  the  Fleet  is  almost 
as  good  a  pleader  as  an  empty  stomach, — he!  he!  he! 
—  but  the  stroke  must  be  made  soon,  for  time  presses, 
and  this  d — d  business  spreads  so  fast  that  if  I  don't 
have  a  speedy  help,  it  will  be  too  much  for  my  hands, 
griping  as  they  are.  However,  if  it  holds  on  a  year 
longer,  I  will  change  my  seat  in  the  Lower  House  for 
one  in  the  Upper;  twenty  thousand  pounds  to  the  min- 
ister may  make  a  merchant  a  very  pretty  peer.  O 
brave  Richard  Crauford,  wise  Eichard  Crauford,  fortu- 
nate Richard  Crauford,  noble  Richard  Crauford!  Why, 
if  thou  art  ever  hanged,  it  will  be  by  a  jury  of  peers. 
Gad,  the  rope  would  then  have  a  dignit}'  in  it  instead  of 

disgrace.     But  stay,  here  comes  the  Dean  of ;  not 

orthodox,  it  is  said, — rigid  Calvinist!  —  out  with  the 
*  Divine  Call ' !  " 

When  i\Ir.  Richard  Crauford  repaired  next  to  Glen- 
dower,  what  was  his  astonishment  and  dismay  at  hear- 
ing he  had  left  his  home,  none  knew  whither,  nor  could 
give  the  inquirer  the  slightest  clew. 

"How  long  has  he  left?"  said  Crauford  to  the 
landlady. 

"Five  days,  sir." 

"  And  will  he  not  return  to  settle  any  little  debts  he 
may  have  incurred  %  "  said  Crauford. 

"Oh,  no;  sir, — he  paid  them  all  before  he  went. 
Poor  gentleman, — for  though  he  was  poor,  he  was  the 
finest  and  most  thorough  gentleman  I  ever  saw!  —  my 
heart  bled  for  him.  They  parted  with  all  their  valu- 
ables to  discharge  their  debts-,  the  books  and  instru- 
ments and  busts, — all  went;  and  what  I  saw,  though 
he  spoke  so  indifferently  about  it,  hurt  him  the  most. 


2S8  THE    DISOWNED. 

—  he  sold  even  tlie  lady's  picture.  'Mrs.  Croftson,' 
said  he,  '  Mr.  ,  the  painter,  will  send  for  that  pic- 
ture the  day  after  I  leave  you.  See  that  he  has  it,  and 
that  the  greatest  care  is  taken  of  it  in  delivery.'  " 
"  And  you  cannot  even  guess  where  he  has  gone  to  ?  " 
"No,  sir;  a  single  porter  was  suthcient  to  convey  his 
remaining  goods,  and  he  took  hiiu  from  some  distant 
part  of  the  town. " 

"Ten  thousand  devils!"  muttered  Crauford,  as  he 
turned  away,  "  I  should  have  foreseen  this!  He  is  lost 
now.  Of  course  he  will  again  change  his  name;  and  in 
the  d — d  holes  and  corners  of  this  gigantic  puzzle  of 
houses,  how  shall  I  ever  find  him  out?  —  and  time 
presses  too!  Well,  well,  well!  there  is  a  fine  prize  for 
being  cleverer,  or,  as  fools  would  say,  more  rascally 
than  others;  but  there  is  a  world  of  trouble  in  winning 
it.  But  come,  —  I  will  go  home,  lock  myself  up,  and 
get  drunk!  I  am  as  melancholy  as  a  cat  in  love,  and 
about  as  stupid;  and,  faith,  one  must  get  spirits  in 
order  to  hit  on  a  new  invention.  But  if  there  be  con- 
sistency in  fortune,  or  success  in  perseverance,  or  wit  in 
Kichard  Crauford,  that  man  shall  yet  be  my  victim  — 
and  preserver !  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  289 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Revenge  is  now  the  cud 
That  I  do  chew.  —  I  '11  challenge  him. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

We  return  to  "  the  world  of  fashion,"  as  the  admirers  of 

the  polite  novel  of  would  say.     The  noonday  sun 

broke  hot  and  sultry  through  half-closed  curtains  of  ro- 
seate silk,  playing  in  broken  beams  upon  rare  and  fra- 
grant exotics,  which  cast  the  perfumes  of  southern 
summers  over  a  chamber,  moderate,  indeed,  as  to  its 
dimensions,  but  decorated  with  a  splendor  rather  gaudy 
than  graceful,  and  indicating  much  more  a  passion  for 
luxury  than  a  refinement  of  taste. 

At  a  small  writing-table  sat  the  beautiful  La  Meron- 
ville.  She  had  just  finished  a  note,  written  (how  Jean 
Jacques  would  have  been  enchanted!)  upon  paper 
couleur  de  rose,  with  a  mother-of-pearl  pen,  formed  as 
one  of  Cupid's  darts,  dipped  into  an  inkstand  of  the 
same  material,  which  was  shaped  as  a  quiver,  and  placed 
at  the  back  of  a  little  Love,  exquisitely  wrought.  She 
was  folding  this  billet  when  a  page,  fantastically  dressed, 
entered,  and  announcing  Lord  Borodaile,  was  imme- 
diately followed  by  that  nobleman.  Eagerly  and  almost 
blushingly  did  La  Meronville  thrust  the  note  into  her 
bosom,  and  hasten  to  greet  and  to  embrace  her  adorer. 
Lord  Borodaile  flung  himself  on  one  of  the  sofas  with  a 
listless  and  discontented  air.  The  experienced  French- 
woman saw  that  there  was  a  cloud  on  his  brow. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  she,  in  her  own  tongue,  "  you 
seem  vexed,  —  has  anything  annoyed  you?  " 

VOL.  I. — 19 


290  THE  DISOWNED. 

"  Xo,  Cecile,  no.  By  the  by,  who  supped  with  you 
last  night?" 

"  Oh!  the  Duke  of  Haverfiehl,  —  your  friend." 

"My  friend!"  interrupted  Eorodaile,  haughtily, — 
"  he 's  no  friend  of  mine:  a  vulgar,  talkative  fellow, — 
my  friend,  indeed!  " 

"  Well,  I  beg  your  pardon:  then  there  was  Mademoi- 
selle Caumartin,  and  the  Prince  Pietro  del  Orbino,  and 
Mr.  Trevanion,  and  Mr.  Lin — Lin  —  Linten,  or 
Linden. " 

"  And,  pray,  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  how  you  be- 
came acquainted  with  Mr.  Lin  —  Lin  —  Linten,  or 
Linden  1  " 

"  Assuredly,  —  through  the  Duke  of  Haverfield." 

"  Humph,  Cecile,  my  love,  that  young  man  is  not  fit 
to  be  the  acquaintance  of  my  friend;  allow  me  to  strike 
him  from  your  list." 

"Certainly,  certainly!  "  said  La  Meronville,  hastily; 
and  stooping  as  if  to  pick  up  a  fallen  glove,  though 
in  reality  to  hide  her  face  from  Lord  P>oro<laile's  search- 
ing eye,  the  letter  she  had  written  fell  from  her  bosom. 
Lord  Borodaile's  glance  detected  the  superscription,  and 
before  La  Meronville  could  regain  the  note,  he  had 
possessed  himself  of  it. 

"  A  Monsieur,  Monsieur  Linden !  "  said  he,  coldly, 
reading  the  address;  "and  pray,  how  long  have  you 
corresponded  with  that  gentleman  ?  " 

Xow  La  ^leronville's  situation  at  that  moment  was 
by  no  means  agreeable.  She  saw  at  one  glance  that  no 
falsehood  or  artifice  could  avail  her;  for  Lord  liorodaile 
might  deem  himself  fully  justified  in  reading  the  note, 
Avhich  would  contradict  any  glossing  statement  she 
might  make.  She  saw  this.  She  was  a  woman  of 
independence,  cared  not  a  straw  for  Lord  Borodaile  at 


THE   DISOWNED.  291 

present,  though  she  had  had  a  caprice  for  him,  knew 
that  she  might  choose  her  bon  ami  out  of  all  London, 
and  replied,  — 

"  That  is  the  first  letter  I  ever  wrote  to  him;  but  I 
own  that  it  will  not  be  the  last. " 

Lord  Borodaile  turned  pale. 

"And  will  you  suffer  me  to  read  it?"  said  he;  for 
even  in  these  cases  he  was  punctiliously  honorable. 

La  Meronville  hesitated.  She  did  not  know  him. 
"  If  I  do  not  consent,"  thought  she,  "  he  will  do  it  with- 
out the  consent;  better  submit  with  a  good  grace. — • 
Certainly!  "  she  answered,  with  an  air  of  indifference. 

Borodaile  opened  and  read  the  note;  it  was  as 
follows :  — 

You  bave  inspired  me  with  a  feeling  for  you  which  aston- 
ishes myself.  Ah,  why  should  that  love  be  the  strongest 
which  is  the  swiftest  in  its  growth  ?  I  used  to  love  Lord 
Borodaile  ;  I  now  only  esteem  him,  —  the  love  has  flown  to 
you.  If  I  judge  rightly  from  your  words  and  your  ej'es,  this 
avowal  will  not  be  unwelcome  to  you.  Come  and  assure  me, 
in  person,  of  a  persuasion  so  dear  to  mv  heart. 

C.  L.  M. 

"A  very  pretty  effusion!"  said  Lord  Borodaile,  sar- 
castically, and  only  showing  his  inward  rage  by  the 
increasing  paleness  of  his  complexion,  and  a  slight  com- 
pression of  his  lip.  "  I  thank  you  for  your  confidence  in 
me.  All  I  ask  is,  that  you  will  not  send  this  note  till 
to-morrow.  Allow  me  to  take  my  leave  of  you  first,  and 
to  find  in  ]\Ir.  Linden  a  successor  rather  than  a  rival. " 

"Your  request,  my  friend,"  said  La  Meronville, 
adjusting  her  hair,  "  is  but  reasonable.  I  see  that  you 
understand  these  arrangements;  and,  for  my  part,  I 
think  tliat  the  end  of  love  should  always  be  the  begin- 
ning of  friendship,  —  let  it  be  so  with  us!  " 


292  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  You  do  me  too  much  honor,"  said  Borodaile,  bowing 
profoundly.  "  Meanwhile,  1  depend  upon  your  promise, 
and  bid  you,  as  a  lover,  farewell  forever." 

With  his  usual  slow  step.  Lord  Borodaile  descended 
the  stairs,  and  walked  towards  the  central  quartier  of 
the  town.  His  meditations  were  of  no  soothing  nature. 
"  To  be  seen  by  that  man  in  a  ridiculous  and  degrading 
situation,  to  be  pestered  with  his  d — d  civility,  to  be 
rivalled  by  him  with  Lady  Flora,  to  be  duped  and 
outdone  by  him  with  my  mistress!  Ay,  — all  this  have 
I  been ;  but  vengeance  shall  come  yet.  As  for  La 
Meronville,  the  loss  is  a  gain;  and,  thank  Heaven,  I 
did  not  betray  myself  by  venting  my  passion  and  making 
a  scene.  But  it  was  I  who  ought  to  have  discarded  her, 
—  not  the  reverse ;  and  —  death  and  confusion  —  for  that 
upstart,  above  all  men !  And  she  talked  in  her  letter 
about  his  eyes  and  words.  Insolent  coxcomb,  to  dare 
to  have  eyes  and  words  for  one  who  belonged  to  me. 
Well,  well,  he  sliall  smart  for  this.  But  let  me  con- 
sider: I  must  not  play  the  jealous  fool,  must  not  fight 

for  a ,  must  not  show  the  world  that  a  man,  nobody 

knows  who,  could  really  outwit  and  outdo  me  —  me, 
Francis  Borodaile!  No,  no;  T  must  throw  the  insult 
upon  him:  must  myself  be  the  aggressor  and  the  chal- 
lenged; then,  too,  I  shall  have  the  choice  of  weapons, — 
pistols,  of  course.  Where  shall  I  hit  him,  by  the  by? 
I  wish  I  shot  as  well  as  I  used  to  do  at  Naples.  I 
was  in  full  practice  then.  Cursed  place,  where  there 
was  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  practise !  " 

Immersed  in  these,  or  somewhat  similar  reflections, 
did  Lord  Borodaile  enter  Pall  Mall. 

"Ah,  Borodaile!"  said  Lord  St.  George,  suddenly 
emerging  from  a  shop.  "  This  is  really  fortunate :  you 
are  going  my  way  exactly,  —  allow  me  to  join  you." 


THE   DISOWNED.  293 

Now  Lord  Borodaile,  to  say  nothing  of  his  happening 
at  that  time  to  be  in  a  mood  more  than  usually  unsocial, 
could  never  at  any  time  bear  the  thought  of  being  made 
an  instrument  of  convenience,  pleasure,  or  good  fortune 
to  another.  He  therefore,  with  a  little  resentment  at 
Lord  kSt.  George's  familiarity,  coldly  replied,  "  I  am 
sorry  that  I  cannot  avail  myself  of  your  offer.  I  am  sure 
my  way  is  not  the  same  as  yours." 

"Then,"  replied  Lord  St.  George,  who  was  a  good- 
natured,  indolent  man,  who  imagined  everybody  was  as 
averse  to  walking  alone  as  he  was, —  "  then  I  will  make 
mine  the  same  as  yours. " 

Borodaile  colored:  though  always  uncivil,  he  did  not 
like  to  be  excelled  in  good  manners;  and  therefore  re- 
plied, that  nothing  but  extreme  business  at  White's 
could  have  induced  him  to  prefer  his  own  way  to  that 
of  Lord  St.  George. 

The  good-natured  peer  took  Lord  Borodaile's  arm.  It 
was  a  natural  incident,  but  it  vexed  the  punctilious 
viscount,  that  any  man  should  take,  not  offer  the 
support. 

"So,  they  say,"  observed  Lord  St.  George,  "that 
young  Linden  is  to  marry  Lady  Flora  Ardenne." 

"  Les  on-dits  font  la  gazette  desfous,"  rejoined  Boro- 
daile, with  a  sneer.  "  I  believe  that  Lady  Flora  is  little 
likely  to  contract  such  a  mesalliance." 

"  MesaUianre  !  "  replied  Lord  St.  George.  "  I  thought 
Linden  was  of  a  very  old  family,  which  you  know  the 
Westbcroughs  are  not,  and  he  has  great  expectations  —  " 

"  Which  are  never  to  be  realized,"  interrupted  Boro- 
daile, laughing  scornfully. 

"Ah,  indeed!"  said  Lord  St.  George,  seriously. 
"  Well,  at  all  events,  he  is  a  very  agreeable,  unaffected 
young    man, — and    by   the   by,   Borodaile,   you   will 


294  THE    DISOWNED. 

meet  him  chez  moi  to-day:  you  know  you  dine  with 
me  1 " 

"Meet  ]\rr.  Linden!  I  shall  be  proud  to  have  that 
honor,"  said  Borodaile,  with  sparkling  eyes;  "  will  Lady 
Westborough  be  also  of  the  party  1  " 

"No;  poor  Lady  St.  George  is  very  ill,  and  I  have 
taken  the  opportunity  to  ask  only  men." 

"  You  have  done  wisely,  my  lord,"  said  Borodaile, 
secum  mulfa  revolvens  ;  "  and  I  assure  you  I  wanted  no 
hint  to  remind  me  of  your  invitation." 

Here  the  Duke  of  Haverfield  joined  them.  The  duke 
never  bowed  to  any  one  of  the  male  sex;  he  therefore 
nodded  to  Borodaile,  who,  with  a  very  supercilious  for- 
mality, took  off  his  hat  in  returning  the  salutation.  The 
viscount  had  at  least  this  merit  in  his  pride :  that  if  it 
was  reserved  to  the  humble,  it  was  contemptuous  to  the 
high,  —  his  inferiors  he  wished  to  remain  where  they 
were;  his  equals  he  longed  to  lower. 

"  So  I  dine  with  you,  Lord  St.  George,  to-day,"  said 
the  duke ;  "  Avhora  shall  I  meet  1  " 

"  Lord  Borodaile,  for  one,"  answered  St.  George  ;  "  my 
brother,  Aspeden,  Findlater,  Orbino,  and  Linden." 

"  Linden!  "  cried  the  duke;  "  I  'm  very  glad  to  hear 
it,  c'est  im  homme  fait  exjjres  poiir  moi.  He  is  very 
clever,  and  not  above  playing  the  fool ;  has  humor  with- 
out setting  up  for  a  wit,  and  is  a  good  fellow  without 
being  a  bad  man.      I  like  him  excessively. " 

"  Lord  St.  George,"  said  Borodaile,  who  seemed  thnt 
day  to  be  the  very  martyr  of  the  unconscious  Clarence, 
"  I  wish  yo\i  good-morning.  I  have  only  just  remem- 
bered an  engagement  which  I  imist  keep  before  I  go  to 
White's." 

And,  with  a  bow  to  the  duke,  and  a  remonstrance  from 
Lord   St.    George,  Borodaile   effected  his  escape.     His 


THE    DISOWNED.  295 

complexion  was,  insensibly  to  himself,  more  raised  than 
usual,  his  step  more  stately;  his  mind,  for  the  first  time 
for  years,  was  fully  excited  and  engrossed.  Ah,  what  a 
delightful  thing  it  is  for  an  idle  man,  who  has  been 
dying  of  ennui,  to  find  an  enemy. 


296  TIIK   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

You  innst  challen<!je  him  ; 
There 's  no  avoiding,  —  one  or  botli  must  drop. 

BeauiMont  and  Fletcher. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  —  hravo,  Linden!  "  cried  Lord  St.  George, 
from  the  head  of  his  splendid  board,  in  approbation  of 
some  witticism  of  Clarence's;  and  ha,  ha,  ha!  or  he, 
he,  he!  according  to  the  cachinnatory  intonations  of  the 
guests,  rang  around. 

"  Your  lordship  seems  unwell,"  said  Lord  Aspeden  to 
Borodaile;  "  allow  me  to  take  wine  with  you." 

Lord  Borodaile  bowed  his  assent. 

"  Pray,"  said  Mr.  St.  George  to  Clarence,  "have  you 
seen  my  friend  Talbot  lately  1  " 

"This  very  morning,"  replied  Linden:  "indeed,  I 
generally  visit  him  three  or  four  times  a  week,  —  he 
often  asks  after  you. " 

"  Indeed!  "  said  Mr.  St.  George,  rather  flattered:  "  he 
does  me  much  honor, —  but  he  is  a  distant  connection  of 
mine,  and  I  suppose  I  must  attribute  his  recollection  of 
me  to  that  cause.  He  is  a  near  relation  of  yours  too,  I 
think,  —  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  I  am  related  to  him,"  answered  Clarence,  coloring. 

Lord  Borodaile  leaned  forward,  and  his  lip  curled. 
Though  in  some  respects  a  very  unaraialde  man,  he  had, 
as  we  have  said,  his  gooil  points.  He  hated  a  lie  as 
much  as  Achilles  did;  and  he  believed  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  that  Clarence  had  just  uttered  one. 

"  Why,"  observed  Lord  Aspeden, —  "  why,  Lord  Boro- 
daile,   the   Talbots   of   Scarsdale  are  branches  of  your 


THE   DISOWNED.  297 

genealogical  tree ;  therefore  your   lordship   must  he  re- 
lated to  Linden :  you  are  '  two  cherries  on  one  stalk !  '  " 

"  We  are  by  no  means  related,"  said  Lord  Borodaile, 
with  a  distinct  and  clear  voice,  intended  expressly  for 
Clarence;  "  that  is  an  honor  which  I  must  beg  leave  most 
positively  to  disclaim." 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  —  the  eyes  of  all  who  heard 
a  remark  so  intentionally  rude  were  turned  immediately 
towards  Clarence.  His  cheek  burned  like  fire;  he  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  and  then  said,  in  the  same  key,  though 
with  a  little  trembling  in  his  intonation, — 

"  Lord  Borodaile  cannot  be  more  anxious  to  disclaim 
it  than  T  am. " 

"And  yet,"  returned  the  viscount,  stung  to  the  soul, 
"  they  who  advance  false  pretensions  ought  at  least  to 
support  them !  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  ray  lord,"  said  Clarence. 

"Possibly  not,"  answered  Borodaile,  carelessly: 
"  there  is  a  maxim  which  says  that  people  not  accustomed 
to  speak  truth  cannot  comprehend  it  in  others." 

Unlike  the  generality  of  modern  heroes,  who  are 
always  in  a  passion,  —  off-hand,  dashing  fellows,  in 
w^hom  irascibility  is  a  virtue,  —  Clarence  M^as  peculiarly 
sweet-tempered  by  nature,  and  had,  by  habit,  acquired 
a  command  over  all  his  passions  to  a  degree  very  uncom- 
mon in  so  young  a  man.  He  made  no  reply  to  the  in- 
excusable affront  he  had  received.  His  lip  quivered  a 
little,  and  the  flush  of  his  countenance  was  succeeded  by 
an  extreme  paleness,  —  this  was  all:  he  did  not  even 
leave  the  room  immediately,  but  waited  till  the  silence 
was  broken  by  some  well-bred  member  of  the  party ;  and 
then,  pleading  an  early  engagement  as  an  excuse  for  his 
retiring  so  soon,  he  rose,  and  departed. 

There  was  throughout  the  room  a  universal  feeling  of 


298  THE   DISOWNED. 

sympathy  with  the  affront,  and  indignation  against  the 
offender;  for,  to  say  notliing  of  Ch^rence's  popularity, 
and  the  extreme  dislike  in  which  Lord  iJorodaile  was 
lield,  there  could  he  no  doubt  as  to  the  wantonness  of  the 
outrage,  or  the  moderation  of  the  aggrieved  party.  Lord 
]^orodaile  already  felt  the  punishment  of  his  offence:  his 
very  pride,  while  it  rendered  him  indifferent  to  the 
spirit,  had  hitherto  kept  him  scrupulous  as  to  the  for- 
malities of  social  politeness ;  and  he  could  not  but  see 
the  grossness  with  which  he  had  suffered  himself  to  vio- 
late them,  and  the  light  in  which  his  conduct  was  re- 
garded. However,  this  internal  discomfort  only  rendered 
him  the  more  embittered  against  Clarence,  and  the  more 
confirmed  in  his  revenge.  Kesuming,  by  a  strong 
effort,  all  the  external  indifference  habitual  to  his  man- 
ner, he  attempted  to  enter  into  a  conversation  with  those 
of  the  party  who  were  next  to  him ;  but  his  remarks 
produced  answers  brief  and  cold.  Even  Lord  Aspeden 
forgot  his  diplomacy  and  his  smile;  Lord  St.  George 
replied  to  his  observations  by  a  monosyllable ;  and  tlie 
Duke  of  Haverfield,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  asserted 
the  prerogative  which  his  rank  gave  him  of  setting  the 
example,  —  his  grace  did  not  reply  to  Lord  Borodaile  at 
all.  In  truth,  every  one  present  was  seriously  dis- 
pleased. All  civilized  societies  have  a  paramount  interest 
in  repressing  the  rude.  Nevertheless,  Lord  Borodaile 
bore  the  brunt  of  his  unpopularity  with  a  steadiness  and 
xniombarrassed  composure  worthj'  of  a  better  caiise ;  and 
finding  at  last  a  companion  disposed  to  be  loquacious  in 
the  person  of  Sir  Christopher  Findlater  (Avhose  good 
heart,  though  its  first  impulse  resented  more  violently 
than  that  of  any  heart  present  the  discourtesy  of  the 
viscount,  yet  soon  warmed  to  the  disagremens  of  his 
situation,  and  hastened  to  adopt  its  favorite  maxim  of 


THE   DISOWNED.  299 

forgive  and  forget),  Lord  Borodaile  sat  the  meeting 
out;  and  if  he  did  not  leave  the  latest,  he  was,  at  least, 
not  the  iirst  to  follow  Clarence.  "  Vorgueil  ou  donne 
le  courage,  on  il  y  supplee."  ^ 

^Meanwhile  Linden  had  returned  to  his  solitary  home. 
He  hastened  to  his  room,  locked  the  door,  flung  himself 
on  his  sofa,  and  hurst  into  a  violent  and  almost  feminine 
paroxysm  of  tears.  This  fit  lasted  for  more  than  an 
hour;  and  when  Clarence  at  length  stilled  the  indignant 
swellings  of  his  heart,  and  rose  from  his  supine  position, 
he  started  as  his  eye  fell  upon  the  opposite  mirror,  so 
haggard  and  exhausted  seemed  the  forced  and  fearful 
calmness  of  his  countenance.  With  a  hurried  step, 
with  arms  now  folded  on  his  hosom,  now  wildlj^  tossed 
from  him,  and  the  hand  so  firmly  clenched  that  the  very 
bones  seemed  working  through  the  skin,  with  a  brow 
now  fierce,  now  only  dejected,  and  a  complexion  which 
one  while  burned  as  with  the  crimson  flush  of  a  fever, 
and  at  another  was  wan  and  colorless  like  his  whose 
cheek  a  spectre  has  blanched ,  Clarence  paced  his  apart- 
ment, the  victim  not  only  of  shame,  —  the  bitterest  of 
tortures  to  a  young  and  high  mind,  —  but  of  other 
contending  feelings,  which  alternately  exasperated  and 
palsied  his  wrath,  and  gave  to  his  resolves  at  one  moment 
an  almost  savage  ferocity,  and  at  the  next,  an  almost 
cowardly  vacillation. 

The  clock  had  just  struck  the  hour  of  twelve,  when 
a  knock  at  the  door  announced  a  visitor.  Steps  were 
heard  on  the  stairs,  and  presently  a  tap  at  Clarence's 
room  door.  He  unlocked  it,  and  the  Duke  of  Haver- 
field  entered. 

"  I  am  charmed  to  find  you  at  home,"  cried  the  duke, 
with  his  usual  half-kind,  half-careless  address.  "  I  was 
1  Pride  either  gives  courage  or  supplies  the  place  of  it. 


300  TIIK   DISOWNED. 

determined  to  call  upon  you,  and  ho  the  first  to  offer  my 
services  in  this  unpleasant  affair." 

Clarence  pressed  the  duke's  hand,  hut  made  no 
answer. 

"  Nothing  could  he  so  unhandsome  as  Lord  Borodaile's 
conduct,"  continued  the  duke.  "  I  hope  you  both  fence 
and  shoot  well.  I  shall  never  forgive  you  if  you  do 
not  put  an  end  to  that  piece  of  rigidity. " 

Clarence  continued  to  walk  about  the  room  in  great 
agitation;  the  duke  looked  at  him  with  some  surprise. 
At  last  Linden  paused  by  the  window,  and  said,  half  un- 
consciously, "  It  must  be  so, —  I  cannot  avoid  fighting!  " 

"  Avoid  fighting!  "  cried  his  grace  in  undisguised  as- 
tonishment. "  No,  indeed ;  but  that  is  the  least  part  of 
the  matter,  —  you  must  kill  as  well  as  fight  him." 

"  Kill  hivi!  "  cried  Clarence,  wildly,  "  whom  !  "  and 
then  sinking  into  a  chair,  he  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands  for  a  few  moments,  and  seemed  to  struggle  with 
his  emotions. 

"  Well,"  thought  the  duke,  "  I  never  was  more  mis- 
taken in  my  life.  I  could  have  bet  my  black  horse 
against  Trevanion's  Julia,  which  is  certainly  the  most 
worthless  thing  I  know,  that  Linden  had  been  a  brave 
fellow;  but  tliese  Englisli  heroes  always  go  into  fits  at  a 
duel:  one  manages  such  things,  as  Sterne  says,  better 
in  France." 

Clarence  now  rose,  calm  and  collected.  He  sat  down, 
Avrote  a  brief  note  to  l>orodaile,  demanding  the  fullest 
apology,  or  the  earliest  meeting,  pat  it  into  the  duke's 
hands,  and  said,  with  a  faint  smile,  "My  dear  duke, 
dare  I  ask  you  to  be  second  to  a  man  who  has  been  so 
grievously  alfronted,  and  whose  genealogy  has  been  so 
disputed  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Linden,"  said  the  duke,  warmly,  "I  have 


THE   DISOWNED.  301 

always  been  grateful  to  my  station  in  life  for  this  advan- 
tage, the  freedom  with  which  it  has  enabled  me  to  select 
my  own  acquaintance,  and  to  follow  my  own  pursuits. 
I  am  now  more  grateful  to  it  than  ever,  because  it  has 
given  me  a  better  opportunity  than  I  should  otherwise 
have  had  of  serving  one  whom  I  have  always  esteemed. 
In  entering  into  your  quarrel,  I  shall  at  least  show  the 
world  that  there  are  some  men,  not  inferior  in  preten- 
sions to  Lord  Borodaile,  who  despise  arrogance  and  re- 
sent overbearance  even  to  others.  Your  cause  I  consider 
the  common  cause  of  society;  but  I  shall  take  it  up,  if 
you  will  allow  me,  with  the  distinguishing  zeal  of  a 
friend." 

Clarence,  who  was  much  affected  by  the  kindness  of 
this  speech,  replied  in  a  similar  vein;  and  the  duke, 
having  read  and  approved  the  letter,  rose.  "  There  is, 
in  my  opinion,"  said  he,  "no  time  to  be  lost.  I  Avill 
go  to  Borodaile  this  very  evening,  —  adieu,  vion  cher  : 
you  shall  kill  the  Argus,  and  then  carry  off  the  lo.  I 
feel  in  a  double  passion  with  that  ambulating  poker 
who  is  only  malleable  when  he  is  red  hot,  when  I  think 
how  honorably  scrupulous  you  were  with  La  Meronville 
last  night,  notwithstanding  all  her  advances;  but  I  go 
to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  scold  him.     Au  revoir. " 


302  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   XLV. 

Conon.  —  You  're  well  met,  Crates. 
Crates.  —  If  we  part  so,  Conon. 

Queen  of  Corinth. 

It  was  as  might  be  expected  from  the  character  of  the 
aggressor.  Lord  Borodaile  refuseei  all  apology,  and 
agreed  with  avidity  to  a  speedy  rendezvous.  He  chose 
pistols  (choice,  then,  was  not  merely  nominal),  and 
selected  Mr.  Percy  Bobus  for  his  second,  a  gentleman 
who  was  much  fonder  of  acting  in  that  capacity  than  in 
the  more  honorable  one  of  a  principal.  The  author  of 
"Lacon, "  says,  "that  if  all  seconds  were  as  averse  to 
duels  as  their  principals,  there  would  be  very  little 
blood  spilled  in  that  way  ;  "  and  it  was  certainly  astonish- 
ing to  compare  the  zeal  with  which  Mr.  Bobus  busied 
himself  about  this  "  affair,"  with  that  testified  by  him 
on  another  occasion,  when  he  himself  was  more  imme- 
diately concerned. 

The  morning  came.  Bobus  breakfasted  with  his 
friend.  "Damn  it,  Borodaile,"  said  he,  as  the  latter 
was  receiving  the  ultimate  pcdish  of  the  hair-dresser, 
"  I  never  saw  you  look  better  in  my  life.  It  will  be  a 
great  pity  if  that  fellow  shoots  you." 

"  Shoots  me/  "  said  Lord  Borodaile,  very  quietly,  — 
"me, — no!  that  is  quite  out  of  the  question;  but, 
joking  apart,  P.obus,  I  will  not  kill  the  young  man. 
Where  shiill  I  hit  him?" 

"  In  the  cap  of  the  knee,"  said  Mr.  Percy,  breaking 
an  egg. 


THE   DISOWNED.  303 

"Nay,  that  will  lame  him  for  life,"  said  Lord  Boro- 
daile,  putting  on  his    cravat  with  peculiar    exactitude. 

"Serve  him  right,"  said  Mr.  IJobus.  "Hang  him, 
I  never  got  up  so  early  in  my  life,  —  it  is  quite  impos- 
sible to  eat  at  this  hour.  Oh,  a  'projios,  Borodaile, 
have  you  left  any  little  memoranda  for  me  to  execute  1  " 

"  Memoranda!  —  for  what?  "  said  Borodaile,  who  had 
now  just  finished  his  toilet. 

"  Oh!  "  rejoined  Mr.  Percy  Bohus,  "  in  case  of  acci- 
dent, you  know:  the  man  may  shoot  well,  though  I 
never  saw  him  in  the  gallery." 

"Pray,"  said  Lord  Borodaile,  in  a  great  though  sup- 
pressed passion,  —  "pray,  Mr.  Bohus,  how  often  have 
I  to  tell  you  that  it  is  not  by  Mr.  Linden  that  my  days 
are  to  terminate ;  you  are  sure  that  Carabine  saw  to  that 
trigger  1  " 

"Certain,"  said  Mr.  Percy,  with  his  mouth  full, — 
"certain.  Bless  me,  here's  the  carriage,  and  break- 
fast not  half  done  yet!  " 

"Come,  come,"  cried  Borodaile,  impatiently,  "we 
must  breakfast  afterwards.  Here,  Roberts,  see  that  we 
have  fresh  chocolate  and  some  more  cutlets  when  we 
return." 

"  I  would  rather  have  them  now,"  sighed  Mr.  Bobus, 
foreseeing  the  pos.sibility  of  the  return  being  single,  — 
"Ibis/  redUns?"  etc. 

"Come,  we  have  not  a  moment  to  lose,"  exclaimed 
Borodaile,  hastening  down  the  stairs;  and  Mr.  Percy 
Bobus  followed,  with  a  strange  mixture  of  various  re- 
grets, partly  for  the  breakfast  that  vuis  lost,  and  partly 
for  the  frienel  that  might  he. 

When  they  arrive  1  at  the  ground,  Clarence  and  the 
duke  were  already  there ;  the  latter,  who  was  a  dead 
shot,  had  fully  persuaded    himself   that   Clarence   was 


304  THE    DISOWNED. 

equally  adroit,  and  liud,  in  his  providence  for  Boro- 
daile,  brought  a  surgeon.  This  was  a  circumstance  of 
which  the  viscount,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  confidence 
for  himself  and  indifference  for  his  opponent,  had  never 
once  dreamed. 

The  ground  was  measured,  —  the  parties  were  about 
to  take  the  ground.  All  Linden's  former  agitation  was 
vanished:  his  mien  was  firm,  grave,  and  determined, 
but  he  showed  none  of  the  careless  and  fierce  hardihood 
which  characterized  his  adversary;  on  the  contrary,  a 
close  observer  might  have  remarked  something  sad  and 
dejected  amidst  all  the  tranquillity  and  steadiness  of 
his  brow  and  air. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,"  whispered  the  duke,  as  he 
withdrew  from  the  spot,  "  square  your  l)ody  a  little 
more  to  your  left,  and  remember  your  exact  level. 
Borodaile  is  much  shorter  than  you." 

There  was  a  brief,  dread  pause;  the  signal  was  given, 
Borodaile  fired:  his  ball  pierced  Clarence's  side;  the 
wounded  man  staggered  one  step,  but  fell  not.  He 
raised  his  pistol ;  the  duke  bent  eagerly  forward ;  an 
expression  of  disappointment  and  surprise  passed  his 
lips;  Clarence  had  fired  in  the  air.  The  next  moment 
Linden  felt  a  deadly  sickness  come  over  him,  —  he  fell 
into  the  arms  of  the  surgeon.  Borodaile,  touched  by 
a  forbearance  which  he  had  so  little  right  to  expect, 
hastened  to  the  spot.  He  leaned  over  his  adversary  in 
greater  remorse  and  pity  than  he  would  have  readily 
confessed  to  himself.  Clarence  unclosed  his  eyes;  they 
dwelt  for  one  moment  upon  the  subdued  and  earnest 
countenance  of  Borodaile. 

"Thank  God,"  he  said  faintly,  "that  yoii  were  not 
the  victim,"  and  with  those  words  he  fell  back  insen- 
sible.    They  carried  him  to  his  lodgings.      His  wound 


THE   DISOWNED.  305 

was  accurately  examined.  Though  not  mortal,  it  was 
of  a  dangerous  nature;  and  the  surgeons  ended  a 
very  painful  operation,  by  promising  a  very  lingering 
recovery. 

What  a  charming  satisfaction  tor  being  insulted ! 

VOL.  I.  —  20 


306  THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

Je  me  contente  de  ce  qui  pent  s'c'crire,  et  je  reve  tout  ce  qui  peut 
se  rever.i  —  De  Sevigne. 

About  a  week  after  his  wound,  and  the  second  morning 
of  his  return  to  sense  and  conscioirsness,  when  Clarence 
opened  his  eyes,  they  fell  upon  a  female  form  seated 
watclifuUy  and  anxiously  by  his  bedside.  He  raised 
himself  in  mute  surprise,  and  the  figure,  startled  by  the 
motion,  rose,  drew  the  curtain,  and  vanislied.  With 
great  difficulty  he  rang  his  bell.  His  valet,  Harrison, 
on  whose  mind,  though  it  was  of  no  very  exalted  order, 
the  kindness  and  suavity  of  his  master  had  made  a  great 
impression,  instantly  appeared. 

"  Who  was  that  lady  1  "  asked  Linden,  —  "  how  came 
she  here ] " 

Harrison  smiled:  "Oh,  sir,  pray  please  to  lie  down, 
and  make  yourself  easy,  The  lady  knows  you  very  well, 
and  would  come  here;  she  insists  upon  staying  in  the 
house,  so  we  made  up  a  bed  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
she  has  watched  by  you  night  and  day.  She  speaks 
very  little  English  to  be  sure,  but  your  honor  knows, 
begging  your  pardon,  how  well  I  speak  Erench." 

"French!"  said  Clarence,  faintly,  — "  French  ?  In 
Heaven's  name,   who  is  she?" 

"  A  Madame  —  Madame  —  La  Melonveal ,  or  some  such 
name,  sir,"  said  the  valet. 

^  I  content  myself  with  writing  what  I  am  able,  and  I  dream  all 
I  possibly  can  dream. 


THE   DISOWNED.  307 

Clarence  fell  back.  At  that  moment  liis  hand  was 
pressed.  He  turned,  and  saw  Talbot  by  his  side. 
The  kind  old  man  had  not  suffered  La  Meronville  to  be 
Linden's  only  nurse,  —  notwithstanding  his  age  and 
peculiarity  of  habits,  he  had  fixed  his  abode  all  the  day 
in  Clarence's  house,  and  at  night,  instead  of  returning 
to  his  own  home,  had  taken  up  his  lodgings  at  the 
nearest  hotel. 

With  a  jealous  and  anxious  eye  to  the  real  interest 
and  respectability  of  his  adopted  son,  Talbot  had  ex- 
erted all  his  address,  and  even  all  his  power,  to  induce 
La  Meronville,  who  had  made  her  settlement  previous 
to  Talbot's,  to  quit  the  house,  but  in  vain.  With  that 
obstinacy  which  a  Frenchwoman,  when  she  is  senti- 
mental, mistakes  for  nobility  of  heart,  the  ci-devant 
amante  of  Lord  Borodaile  insisted  upon  watching  and 
tending  one  of  whose  sufferings,  she  said  and  believed, 
she  was  the  unhappy  though  innocent  cause :  and 
whenever  more  urgent  means  of  removal  were  hinted 
at,  La  Meronville  flew  to  the  chamber  of  her  beloved, 
apostrophized  him  in  a  strain  worthy  of  one  of  D'Arlin- 
court's  heroines,  and,  in  short,  was  so  unreasonably 
outrageous,  that  the  doctors,  trembling  for  the  safety 
of  their  patient,  obtained  from  Talbot  a  forced  and  re- 
luctant acquiescence  in  the  settlement  she  had  obtained. 

xVh!  what  a  terrible  creature  a  Frenchwoman  is,  when, 
instead  of  coquetting  with  a  caprice,  she  insists  upon 
conceiving  a  grande  j^f'ssion.  Little,  however,  did 
Clarence,  despite  his  vexation  Avhen  he  learned  of  the 
hienveillance  of  La  Meronville,  foresee  the  whole  extent 
of  the  consequences  it  would  entail  u.pon  him:  still  less 
did  Talbot,  who  in  his  seclusion  knew  not  the  celebrity 
of  the  handsome  adventuress,  calculate  upon  the  notoriety 
of  her  motions,  or  the  ill  effect  her  ostentatious  attach- 


308  THE   DISOWNED. 

ment  would  have  upon  Clarence's  prosperity  as  a  lover 
to  Lady  Flora.  In  order  to  explain  these  consequences 
more  fully,  let  us,  for  the  present,  leave  our  hero  to  the 
care  of  the  surgeon,  his  friends,  and  his  would-be  mis- 
tress; and  while  he  is  more  rapidly  recovering  than 
the  doctors  either  hoped  or  presaged,  let  us  renew  our 
acquaintance  with  a  certain  fair  correspondent. 


LETTER   FROM    THE   LADY   FLORA    ARDENNE   TO   MISS   ELEANOft 
TREVANION. 

My  DEAREST  Eleanor,  —  I  have  been  very  ill,  or  you  would 
sooner  have  received  an  answer  to  your  kind,  —  too  kind  and 
consoling  letter.  Indeed,  I  have  only  just  left  my  bed.  They 
say  that  I  have  been  delirious,  and  I  believe  it ;  for  you  can- 
not conceive  what  terrible  dreams  I  have  had.  But  these  are 
all  over  now,  and  every  one  is  so  kind  to  me,  —  my  poor 
mother  above  all  !  It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  ill  when  we 
have  those  who  love  us  to  watch  our  recovery. 

I  have  only  been  in  bed  a  few  days  ;  yet  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  a  long  portion  of  my  existence  were  past,  —  as  if  I  had 
stepped  into  a  new  era.  You  remember  that  my  last  letter 
attempted  to  express  my  feelings  at  mamma's  speech  about 
Clarence,  and  at  my  seeing  him  so  suddenly.  Now,  dearest, 
I  cannot  but  look  on  that  day,  on  these  sensations,  as  on  a 
distant  dream.  Every  one  is  so  kind  to  me,  mamma  caresses 
anil  soothes  me  so  fondly,  that  I  fancy  I  must  have  Ix'cn  under 
some  ilkision.  I  am  sure  they  could  not  seriously  have  meant 
to  forbid  his  addresses.  No,  no  ;  I  feel  tli;it  all  will  yet  be 
■well,  —  so  well,  that  even  you,  who  are  of  so  contented  a 
temper,  will  own  that  if  you  were  not  Eleanor  you  would  be 
Flora. 

I  wonder  wlietlier  Clarence  knows  that  I  have  been  ill.  I 
■wish  you  knew  him.  —Well,  dearest,  this  letter  —  a  very  un- 
handsome return,  I  own,  for  yours  —  must  content  you  at 
present,  for  they  will  not  let  me  write  more.  —  though,  so  far 


THE  DISOWNED.  309 

as  I  am  concerned,  I  am  never  so  weak,  in  frame  I  mean,  but 
what  I  could  scribble  to  you  about  him,  —  Addio,  carissima, 

F.  A. 

I  have  prevailed  on  mamma,  who  wished  to  sit  by  me  and 
amuse  me,  to  gu  to  the  opera  to-night,  the  only  amusement  of 
which  she  is  particularly  fond.  Heaven  forgive  me  for  my 
insincerity,  but  he  always  comes  into  our  box,  and  I  long  to 
hear  some  news  of  him. 

LETTER   II. 

FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Eleanor,  dearest  Eleanor,  I  am  again  very  ill,  but  not  as 
I  was  before,  ill  from  a  foolish  vexation  of  mind  ;  no,  I  am 
now  calm,  and  even  happy.  It  was  from  an  increase  of  cold 
only  that  I  have  suffered  a  relapse.  You  may  believe  this,  I 
assure  you,  in  spite  of  your  well-meant  but  bitter  jests  upon 
my  infatuation,  as  you  very  rightly  call  it,  for  Mr.  Linden. 
You  ask  me  what  news  from  the  opera  1  Silly  girl  that  I  was, 
to  lie  awake  hour  after  hour,  and  refuse  even  to  take  my 
draught,  lest  I  should  be  surprised  into  sleep,  till  mamma  re- 
turned. I  sent  Jermyn  down  directly  I  heard  her  knock  at 
the  door  (oh,  how  anxiously  I  had  listened  for  it  !)  to  say  that 
I  was  still  awake  and  longed  to  see  her.  So,  of  course, 
mamma  came  up,  and  felt  my  pulse,  and  said  it  was  very  fever- 
ish, and  wondered  the  draught  had  not  composed  me,  —  with 
a  great  deal  more  to  the  same  purpose,  which  I  bore  as  pa- 
tiently as  I  could  till  it  was  my  turn  to  talk  ;  and  then  I 
admired  her  dress  and  her  coiffure,  and  asked  if  it  was  a  full 
house,  and  whether  the  prima  donna  was  in  voice,  etc.,  etc.  : 
till,  at  last,  I  won  my  way  to  the  inquiry  of  who  were  her 

visitors.     "  Lord  Borodaile,"  said  she,  "  and  the  Duke  of , 

and  Mr.  St.  George,  and  Captain  Leslie,  and  Mr.  de  Retz,  and 
many  others."  I  felt  so  disappointed,  Eleanor,  but  did  not 
dare  ask  whether  he  was  not  of  the  list  ;  till  at  last  my  mother, 
observing  me  narrowly,  said,  "  And,  by  the  by,  Mr.  Linden 
looked  in  for  a  few  minutes.     I  am  glad,  my  dearest  Elura, 


310  THE   DISOWNED. 

that  I  spoke  to  you  so  decidedly  about  him  the  other  day." 
"  Why,  mamma  ? "  said  I,  hiding  my  face  under  the  clothes. 
"  Because,"  said  she,  in  rather  a  raised  voice,  "  he  is  quite  un- 
worthy of  you  I  —  but  it  is  late  now,  and  you  should  go  to 
sleep,  —  to-morrow  I  will  tell  you  more." 

I  would  have  given  worlds  to  press  the  question  then,  but 
could  not  venture.  Mamma  kissed  and  left  me.  I  tried  to 
twist  her  words  into  a  hundred  meanings,  but  in  each  I  only 
thought  that  they  were  dictated  by  some  worldly  information, 
—  some  new  doubts  as  to  his  birth  or  fortune  ;  and,  though 
that  supposition  distressed  me  greatly,  yet  it  could  not  alter 
my  love,  or  deprive  me  of  hope ;  and  so  I  cried  and  guessed, 
and  guessed  and  cried,  till  at  last  I  cried  myself  to  sleep. 

When  I  awoke,  mamma  was  already  up,  and  sitting  beside 
me  :  she  talked  to  me  for  more  than  an  hour  upon  ordinary 
subjects,  till  at  last,  perceiving  how  absent  or  rather  impa- 
tient I  appeared,  she  dismissed  Jermyn,  and  spoke  to  me 
thus  :  — 

"  You  know.  Flora,  that  I  have  always  loved  you,  more 
perhaps  than  I  ought  to  have  done,  more  certainly  than  I 
have  loved  your  brothers  and  sisters;  but  you  were  my  eldest 
child,  my  first-born,  and  all  the  earliest  associations  of  a 
mother  are  blent  and  entwined  with  you.  You  may  be  sure, 
therefore,  that  I  have  ever  had  only  your  happiness  in  view, 
and  that  it  is  only  with  a  regard  to  that  end  that  I  now  speak 
to  you." 

I  was  a  little  frightened,  Eleanor,  by  this  opening,  but  I 
was  much  more  touched,  so  I  took  mamma's  hand,  and  kissed 
and  wept  silently  over  it,  she  continued  :  "  I  observed  Mr. 

Linden's  attention  to  you,  at .     I  knew  nothing  more  of 

his  rank  and  birth  then  than  I  do  at  present ;  but  his  situa- 
tion in  the  embassy  and  his  personal  appearance  naturally  in- 
duced me  to  suppose  him  a  gentleman  of  family,  and  therefore 
if  not  a  gieat,  at  least  not  an  inferior  match  for  you,  so  far  as 
worldly  distinctions  are  concerned.  Added  to  this,  he  was  un- 
commonly handsome,  and  had  that  general  reputation  for 
talent  which  is  often  better  than  actual  wealth  or  hereditary 
titles.     I  therefore  did  not  check,  though  I  would  not  encour- 


THE   DISOWNED.  311 

age  any  attachment  you  might  form  for  him ;  and   nothing 

being  declared  or  decisive  on  either  side  when  we  left , 

I  imagined  that  if  your  flirtation  with  him  did  even  amount 
to  a  momentary  and  girlish  fantasy,  absence  and  change  of 
scene  would  easily  and  rapidly  efface  the  impression.  I  believe 
that  in  a  great  measure  it  was  effaced,  wlien  Lord  Aspeden  re- 
turned to  England,  and  with  him,  Mr.  Linden.  You  again 
met  the  latter  in  society  almost  as  constantly  as  before  ;  a 
caprice  nearly  conquered,  Avas  once  more  renewed;  and  in  my 
anxiety  that  you  should  marry,  not  for  aggrandizement,  but 
happiness,  I  own  to  my  sorrow,  that  I  rather  favored  than 
forbade  his  addresses.  The  young  man  —  remember,  Flora 
—  appeared  in  society  as  the  nephew  and  heir  of  a  gentleman 
of  ancient  family  and  considerable  property ;  he  was  rising  in 
diplomacy,  popular  in  the  world,  and  so  far  as  we  could  see, 
of  irreproachable  character  ;  this  must  plead  my  excuse  for 
tolerating  his  visits,  without  instituting  further  inquiries  re- 
specting him,  and  allowing  your  attachment  to  proceed  with- 
out ascertaining  how  far  it  had  yet  extended.  I  was  awakened 
to  a  sense  of  my  indiscretion  by  an  inquiry,  which  Mr.  Lin- 
den's popularity  rendered  general,  —  namely,  if  Mr.  Talbot 
was  his  uncle,  who  was  his  father,  who  his  more  immediate 
relations  ? —  and  at  that  time  Lord  Borodaile  informed  us  of  the 
falsehood,  he  had  either  asserted  or  allowed  to  be  spread,  in 
claiming  Mr.  Talbot  as  his  relation.  This  you  will  observe 
entirely  altered  the  situation  of  Mr.  Linden  with  respect  to 
you.  Not  only  his  rank  in  life  became  uncertain,  but  suspi- 
cious. Nor  was  this  all :  his  very  personal  respectability  was 
no  longer  unimpeachable.  Was  this  dubious  and  intrusive 
person,  without  a  name,  and  with  a  sullied  honor,  to  be  your 
suitor  ?  No,  Flora  ;  and  it  was  from  this  indignant  conviction 
that  I  spoke  to  you  some  days  since.  Forgive  me,  my  child, 
if  I  was  less  cautious,  less  confidential  than  I  am  now.  I  did 
not  imagine  the  wound  was  so  deep,  and  thought  that  I  should 
best  cure  you  by  seeming  unconscious  of  your  danger.  The 
case  is  now  changed  ;  your  illness  has  convinced  nie  of  my 
fault,  and  the  extent  of  your  unhappy  attachment;  but  will 
my  own  dear  child  pardon  me  if  I  still  continue,  if  I  even  con- 


312  THE   DISOWNED. 

firm,  my  disapproval  of  her  choice  ?  Last  night  at  the  opera 
Jlr.  Linden  entered  my  box.  I  own  that  I  was  cooler  to  him 
than  usual.  He  soon  left  us,  and  after  the  opera  1  saw  him 
with  the  Duke  of  Haveriield,  one  of  the  most  incorrigible 
roues  oi  the  day,  leading  out  a  woman  of  notoriously  bad  charac- 
ter, and  of  the  most  ostentatious  profligacy,  lie  might  have 
had  some  propriety,  some  decency,  sume  concealment  at  least, 
but  he  passed  just  before  me,  —  before  tlie  mother  of  tlie 
woman  to  whom  his  vows  of  honorable  attachment  were  due, 
and  who  at  that  very  instant  was  suffering  from  her  infatuation 
for  him.  Now,  Flora,  for  this  man,  an  obscure,  and  possibly 
a  plebeian  adventurer,  whose  only  claim  to  notice  has  been 
founded  on  falsehood,  whose  only  merit,  a  love  of  you,  has 
been,  if  not  utterly  destroyed,  at  least  polluted  and  debased,  — 
for  this  man,  poor  alike  in  fortune,  character,  and  honor,  can 
you  any  longer  profess  affection  or  esteem  / " 

"  Never,  never,  never  ! "  cried  I,  springing  from  the  bed, 
and  throwing  myself  upon  my  mother's  neck.  "  Never:  I  am 
your  own  Flora  once  more.  I  will  never  suffer  any  one  again 
to  make  me  forget  you,"  —  and  then  I  sobbed  so  violently  that 
mamma  was  frightened,  and  made  me  lie  down,  and  left  me 
to  sleep.  Several  hours  have  passed  since  then,  and  I  could 
not  sleep  nor  think,  and  I  would  not  cry,  for  he  is  no  longer 
worthy  of  my  tears  ;  so  I  have  written  to  you. 

Oh,  how  I  despise  and  hate  my.'^elf  for  having  so  utterly,  in 
iiiy  vanity  and  folly,  forgotten  my  mother,  that  dear,  kind, 
constant  friend,  who  never  cost  me  a  single  tear,  but  for  my 
own  ingratitude.  Think,  Eleanor,  what  an  affront  to  me,  — 
to  me,  who,  he  so  often  said,  had  made  all  other  women  worth- 
less in  his  eyes.  Do  I  hate  him  1  No,  I  cannot  hate.  Do  I 
despise?  No,  I  will  not  despise;  but  I  will  forget  him,  and 
keep  my  contempt  and  hatred  lor  myself. 

Goil  bless  you,  —  I  am  Avorn  out.  Write  soon,  or  rather 
come,  if  possible,  to  your  affectionate  but  unworthy  friend, 

F.  A. 

Good  Heavens  I  Eleanor,  he  is  wounded.  He  has  fought 
with  Lord  Borodaile.     I  have  just  heard  it  ;  JermA'n  told  me. 


THE   DISOWNED.  313 

Can  it,  can  it  be  true?  What,  —  what  have  I  said  against 
him?  Hate/  —  forget?  No,  no!  I  never  loved  him  tiU 
now. 

LETTER  III. 

FROM   THE   SAME   TO   THE  SAME. 
(After  au  interval  of  several  weeks.) 

Time  has  flown,  my  Eleanor,  since  you  left  me,  after  your 
short  but  kind  visit,  with  a  heavy  but  healing  wing.  I  do 
not  think  I  shall  ever  again  be  the  giddy  girl  I  have  been; 
but  my  head  will  change,  not  my  heart  :  that  was  never  giddy, 
and  that  shall  still  be  as  much  yours  as  ever.  You  are  wrong 
in  thinking  I  have  not  forgotten,  at  least  renounced  all  affec- 
tion for  Mr.  Linden.  I  have,  though  with  a  long  and  bitter 
effort.  The  woman  for  whom  he  fought,  went,  you  know, 
to  his  house,  immediately  on  hearing  of  his  wound.  She 
has  continued  with  him  ever  since.  He  had  the  audacity 
to  write  to  me  once  ;  my  mother  brought  me  the  note,  and 
said  nothing.  She  read  my  heart  aright.  I  returned  it  un- 
opened. He  has  even  called  since  his  convalescence.  Mamma 
was  not  at  home  to  him.  I  hear  that  he  looks  pale  and  altered. 
I  hope  not,  —  at  least,  I  cannot  resist  praying  for  his  recovery. 
I  stay  within  entirely:  the  season  is  now  over,  and  there  are 
no  parties;  but  T  tremble  at  the  thought  of  meeting  him  even 
in  the  Park  or  the  Gardens.  Papa  talks  of  going  into  the 
country  next  week.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  eagerly  I  look  for- 
ward to  it;  and  you  will  then  come  and  see  me,  —  wall  you 
not,  dearest  Eleanor  ? 

Ah!  what  happy  days  we  will  have  yet;  we  will  read 
Italian  together,  as  we  used  to  do;  you  shall  teach  me  your 
songs,  and  I  will  instruct  you  in  mine  ;  we  will  keep  birds 
as  we  did  —  let  me  see  —  eight  years  ago.  You  will  never 
talk  to  me  of  my  folly :  let  that  be  as  if  it  had  never  been  ; 
hut  I  will  wonder  with  you  aboi;t  your  future  choice,  and 
gi'ow  happy  in  anticipating  your  happiness.  Oh,  how  selfish 
I  was  some  weeks  ago,  —  then  I  could  only  overwhelm  you 


314  THH   DISOWNED. 

with  my  egotisms  ;  now,  Eleanor,  it  is  your  turn,  and  you 
shall  see  how  patiently  1  will  listen  to  yours.  Never  lear  tLiit 
yt)U  can  be  too  prolix  :  the  dilluser  you  aie,  the  easier  1  shall 
forgive  myself. 

Are  you  fond  of  poetry,  Eleanor  ?  I  used  to  say  so,  but  I 
never  felt  that  1  was  till  lately.  I  will  show  you  my  favorite 
passages  in  my  favorite  poets  when  you  come  to  see  me.  You 
shall  see  if  yours  correspond  with  mine.  I  am  so  impatient 
to  leave  this  horrid  town,  where  everything  seems  dull,  yet 
feverish,  —  insipid,  yet  false.  Shall  we  not  be  happy  when 
we  meet  ?  If  your  dear  aunt  will  come  with  you,  she  shall 
see  how  I  (that  is,  my  mind)  am  improved.  —  FarewelL 
Ever  vour  most  affectionate, 

F.  A. 


THE  DISOWNED. 

PART  SECOND. 


Linden  felt  a  deadly  sickness  come  over  him. 

The  Disowned. 


THE    DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

Brave  Talbot,  we  will  follow  thee.  —  Henry  the  Sixth. 

"  My  letter  insultingly  returned ;  myself  refused  admit- 
tance ;  not  a  single  inquiry  made  during  my  illness ; 
indifference  joined  to  positive  contempt.  By  Heaven, 
it  is  insupportable!" 

"  My  dear  Clarence,"  said  Talbot,  to  his  young  friend, 
who,  fretful  from  pain,  and  writhing  beneath  his  mor- 
tification, walked  to  and  fro  his  chamber  with  an  im- 
patient stride, — "my  dear  Clarence,  do  sit  down,  and 
not  irritate  your  wound  by  such  violent  exercise.  I  am 
as  much  enraged  as  yourself  at  the  treatment  you  have 
received,  and  no  less  at  a  loss  to  account  for  it.  Your 
duel,  however  imfortunate  the  event,  must  have  done 
you  credit,  and  obtained  you  a  reputation  both  for  gen- 
erosity and  spirit ;  so  that  it  cannot  be  to  that  occurrence 
that  you  are  to  attribute  the  change.  Let  us  rather  sup- 
pose that  Lady  Flora's  attachment  to  you  has  become 
evident  to  her  father  and  mother,  —  that  they  natu- 
rally think  it  would  be  very  undesirable  to  marry  their 
daughter  to  a  man  whose  family  nobody  knows,  and 
whose  respectability  he  is  forced  into  fighting  in  order 
to  support.  Suffer  me  then  to  call  upon  Lady  West- 
borough,  whom  I  knew  many  years  ago,  and  explain 
your  origin,  as  well  as  your  relationship  to  me," 

VOL.  II.  —  1 


2  THE    DISOWNED. 

Linden  paused  irresolutely. 

"  Were  T  sure  that  Lady  Flora  was  not  utterly  in- 
fluenced by  her  mother's  worldly  views,  I  would  gladly 
consent  to  your  proposal ,  but  —  " 

"Forgive  me,  Clarence,"  cried  Talbot;  "but  you 
really  argue  much  more  like  a  very  young  man  than  I 
ever  heard  you  do  before,  — even  four  years  ago.  To  be 
sure.  Lady  Flora  is  influenced  by  her  mother's  views. 
Would  you  have  her  otherwise  ?  Would  you  have  her, 
in  defiance  of  all  propriety,  modesty,  obedience  to  her 
parents,  and  right  feeling  for  herself,  encourage  an  attach- 
ment to  a  person  not  only  vmknown,  but  wlio  does  not 
even  condescend  to  throw  off  the  incognito  to  the  woman 
he  addresses?  Come,  Clarence,  give  me  my  instruc- 
tions ,  and  let  me  act  as  your  ambassador  to-morrow. " 

Clarence  was  silent, 

"I  may  consider  it  settled  then,"  replied  Talbot j 
"  meanwhile  you  shall  come  home  and  stay  with  me : 
the  pure  air  of  the  country,  even  so  near  town,  will  do 
you  more  good  than  all  the  doctors  in  London;  and, 
besides,  you  will  thus  be  enabled  to  escape  from  that 
persecuting  Frenchwoman. " 

"  In  what  manner  ?  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Why,  when  you  are  in  my  house,  she  cannot  well 
take  up  her  abode  with  you;  and  you  shall,  while  I  am 
forwarding  your  suit  with  Lady  Flora,  write  a  very 
flattering,  very  grateful  letter  of  excuses  to  Madame 
la  Meronville.  But  leave  me  alone  to  draw  it  up  for 
you ;  meanwhile,  let  Harrison  pack  up  your  clothes  and 
medicines,  and  we  will  effect  our  escape  while  Madame 
la  Meronville  yet  sleeps." 

Clarence  rang  the  bell;  the  orders  were  given,  exe- 
cuted, and  in  less  than  an  hour  he  and  his  friend  were 
on  their  road  to  Talbot's  villa. 


THE   DISOWNED.  3 

As  they  drove  slowly  through  the  grounds  to  the 
house,  Clarence  was  sensibly  struck  with  the  quiet  and 
stillness  which  breathed  around.  On  either  side  of  the 
road  the  honeysuckle  and  rose  cast  their  sweet  scents  to 
the  summer  wind,  which,  though  it  was  scarcely  noon, 
stirred  freshly  among  the  trees,  and  waved,  as  if  it 
breathed  a  second  youth  over  the  wan  cheek  of  the  con- 
valescent. The  old  servant's  ear  had  caught  the  sound 
of  wheels,  and  he  came  to  the  door  with  an  expression 
of  quiet  delight  on  his  dry  countenance,  to  welcome  in 
his  master.  They  had  lived  together  for  so  many  years, 
that  they  Avere  grown  like  one  another.  Indeed,  the 
veteran  valet  prided  himself  on  his  happy  adoption  of 
his  master's  dress  and  manner.  A  proud  man,  we  ween, 
was  that  domestic,  whenever  he  had  time  and  listeners 
for  the  indulgence  of  his  honest  loquacity;  many  an 
ancient  tale  of  his  master's  former  glories  was  then 
poured  from  his  unburdening  remembrance.  With 
what  a  glow,  with  what  a  racy  enjoyment  did  he  ex- 
pand upon  the  triumphs  of  the  past;  how  eloquently 
did  he  particularize  the  exact  grace  with  Avhich  young 
Mr.  Talbot  was  wont  to  enter  the  room,  in  which  he 
instantly  became  the  cynosure  of  ladies'  eyes;  how 
faithfully  did  he  minute  the  courtly  dress,  the  exqui- 
site choice  of  color,  the  costly  splendor  of  material, 
Avhich  were  the  envy  of  gentles,  and  the  despairing 
wonder  of  their  valets;  and  then  the  zest  with  which 
the  good  old  man  would  cry,  "I  dressed  the  boy!" 
Even  still,  this  modern  Scipio  (Le  Sage's  Scipio,  not 
Eome's)  would  not  believe  that  his  master's  sun  was 
utterly  set ;  he  was  only  in  a  temporary  retiremeat,  and 
would,  one  day  or  other,  reappear  and  reastonish  the 
London  world.  "  I  would  give  my  right  arm,"  Jasper 
was  wont  to  say,  "  to  see  master  at  court.     How  fond 


4  THE    DISOWNED. 

the  king  would  be  of  liiin.  Ah!  well,  well;  I  wish  he 
was  not  so  melancholy  like  with  his  books,  but  would 
go  out  like  other  people !  " 

Poor  Jasper!  Time  is,  in  general,  a  harsh  M'izard  in 
his  transformations;  but  the  change  which  thou  didst 
lament  so  bitterly,  was  happier  for  thy  master  than  all 
his  former  "  palmy  state  "  of  admiration  and  homage. 
"  Hous  avons  recherche  le  2^l(^isir"  says  Rousseau,  in 
one  of  his  own  inimitable  antitheses, — ^'^  et  le  honheur 
a  fui  loin  de  nous."  ^  But  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure 
we  sometimes  chance  on  wisdom,  and  wisdom  leads  us 
to  the  right  track,  which,  if  it  take  us  not  so  far  as 
happiness,  is  sure  at  least  of  the  shelter  of  content. 

Talbot  leaned  kindly  upon  Jasper's  arm  as  he  de- 
scended from  the  carriage,  and  inquired  into  his  ser- 
vant's rheumatism  with  the  anxiety  of  a  friend.  The 
old  housekeeper,  waiting  in  the  hall,  next  received  his 
attention ;  and  in  entering  the  drawing-room,  with  that 
consideration,  even  to  animals,  which  his  worldly  benev- 
olence had  taught  him,  he  paused  to  notice  and  caress 
a  large  graj'  cat  which  rubbed  herself  against  his  legs. 
Doubtless  there  is  some  pleasure  in  making  even  a  gray 
cat  happy! 

Clarence  having  patiently  undergone  all  the  shrugs 
and  sighs  and  exclamations  of  compassion  at  his  re- 
duced and  wan  appearance,  which  are  the  especial  pre- 
rogatives of  ancient  domestics,  followed  the  old  man 
into  the  room.  Papers  and  books,  though  carefully 
dusted,  were  left  scrupulously  in  the  places  in  which 
Talbot  had  last  deposited  them  (incomparable  good  for- 
tune !  what  would  we  not  give  for  such  chamber  hand- 
maidens!);   fresh   flowers   were   in   all  the    stands  and 

1  We  have  pursued  pleasure,  and  happiness  has  fled  far  from 
our  reach. 


THE   DISOWNED. 


vases;  the  large  library-chair  was  jealously  set  in  its 
accustomed  place,  and  all  Avore,  to  Talbot's  eyes,  that 
cheerful  yet  sober  look  of  welcome  and  familiarity 
which  makes  a  friend  of  our  house. 

The  old  man  was  in  high  spirits :  — 

"  I  know  not  how  it  is,"  said  he,  "  but  I  feel  younger 
than  ever!  You  have  often  expressed  a  wish  to  see  my 
family  seat  at  Scarsdale.  It  is  certainly  a  great  distance 
hence;  but  as  you  will  be  my  travelling  companion,  I 
think  I  will  try  and  crawl  there  before  the  summer  is 
over;  or,  what  say  you,  Clarence,  shall  I  lend  it  to  you 
and  Lady  Flora  for  the  honeymoon?  You  blush!  A 
diplomatist  blush!  — ah,  how  the  world  has  changed 
since  my  time!  But  come,  Clarence,  suppose  you  write 
to  La  Meronville  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,  sir,  if  you  please,"  said  Linden,  "  I  feel 
so  very  weak." 

"As  you  please,  Clarence;  but  some  years  hence  you 
will  learn  the  value  of  the  present.  Youth  is  always  a 
procrastinator,  and,  consequently,  always  a  penitent." 
And  thus  Talbot  ran  on  into  a  strain  of  conversation, 
half  serious,  half  gay,  which  lasted  till  Clarence  went 
upstairs  to  lie  down  and  muse  on  Lady  Flora  Ardenne. 


THE    DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII. 

"  La  vie  est  un  sommeil.  —  Les  vieillards  sont  ceux  dont  le  som- 
meil  a  e'te  plus  long  :  ils  ne  commenceut  a  se  reveiller  que  quand 
il  faut  mourir."  ^  —  La  BRUYfeRE. 

"  You  wonder  why  T  have  never  turned  author,  Avith 
my  constant  love  of  literature,  and  my  former  desire  of 
fame,"  said  Talbot,  as  he  and  Clarence  sat  alone  after 
dinner,  "discussing  many  things:  "  "  the  fact  is,  that  I 
have  often  intended  it,  and  as  often  been  frightened 
from  my  design.  Those  terrible  feuds,  tliose  vehement 
disputes,  those  recriminations  of  abuse,  so  inseparable 
from  literary  life,  appear  to  me  too  dreadful  for  a  man 
not  utterly  hardened  or  malevolent  voluntarily  to  en- 
counter. Good  Heavens!  what  acerbity  sours  the  blood 
of  an  author!  The  manifestos  of  opposing  generals, 
advancing  to  pillage,  to  burn,  to  destroy,  contain  not  a 
tithe  of  the  ferocity  which  animates  the  pages  of  literary 
controversialists!  No  term  of  reproach  is  too  severe,  no 
vituperation  too  excessive! — the  blackest  passions,  the 
bitterest,  the  meanest  malice,  pour  caustic  and  poison 
upon  every  page!  It  seems  as  if  the  greatest  talents, 
the  most  elaborate  knowledge,  only  sprung  from  the 
weakest  and  worst-regulated  mind,  as  exotics  from  dung. 
The  private  records,  the  public  works  of  men  of  letters, 
teem  with  an  immitigable  fury !     Their  histories  might 

1  Life  is  asleep,  —  the  nf];ed  are  those  whose  sleep  has  heen  the 
longest;  they  begin  to  awaken  themselves  just  as  tliey  are  obliged 
to  die. 


THE   DISOWNED.  7 

all  be  reduced  into  these  sentences:  they  were  born, 
they  quarrelled,  they  died!" 

"  But,"  said  Clarence,  "  it  would  matter  little  to  the 
world  if  these  quarrels  were  confined  merely  to  poets 
and  men  of  imaginative  literature,  in  whom  irritability 
is,  perhaps,  almost  necessarily  allied  to  the  keen  and 
quick  susceptibilities  which  constitute  their  genius. 
These  are  more  to  be  lamented  and  wondered  at  among 
philosophers,  theologians,  and  men  of  science;  the  cool- 
ness, the  patience,  the  benevolence,  which  ought  to 
characterize  their  works,  should  at  least  moderate  their 
jealousy  and  soften  their  disputes." 

"Ah!  "  said  Talbot;  "  but  the  vanity  of  discovery  is 
no  less  acute  than  that  of  creation:  the  self-love  of  a 
philosopher  is  no  less  self-love  than  that  of  a  poet. 
Besides,  those  sects  the  most  sure  of  their  opinions, 
whether  in  religion  or  science,  are  always  the  most 
bigoted  and  persecuting.  Moreover,  nearly  all  men 
deceive  themselves  in  disputes,  and  imagine  that  they 
are  intolerant,  not  through  private  jealousy,  but  public 
benevolence;  they  never  declaim  against  the  injustice 
done  to  themselves, — no,  it  is  the  terrible  injury  done 
to  sorAety  which  grieves  and  inflames  them.  It  is  not 
the  bitter  expressions  against  their  dogmas  which  give 
them  pain:  by  no  means;  it  is  the  atrocious  doctrines, 
—  so  prejudicial  to  the  country,  if  in  politics,  so  per- 
nicious to  the  world,  if  in  philosophy, — which  their 
duty,  not  their  vanity,  induces  them  to  denounce  and 
anathematize." 

"  There  seems,"  said  Clarence,  "  to  be  a  sort  of  reac- 
tion in  sophistry  and  hypocrisy:  there  has,  perhaps, 
never  been  a  deceiver  who  was  not,  by  his  own  passions, 
himself  the  deceived." 

"Very  true,"   said   Talbot;  "and   it  is  a  pity  that 


8  THE   DISOWNED. 

historians  have  not  kept  that  fact  in  view:  we  should 
then  have  had  a  hotter  notion  of  tlie  CromwelLs  and 
Mahomets  of  the  past  than  we  have  now,  nor  judged 
those  as  utter  impostors  wlio  were  prohahly  half  dupes. 

"  But  to  return  to  mystdf.  I  think  you  will  ali-eady 
be  able  to  ansAver  your  own  question,  why  I  did  not 
turn  author,  now  that  we  have  given  a  momentary  con- 
sideration to  the  penalties  consequent  on  such  a  profes- 
sion. But,  in  truth,  as  I  near  the  close  of  my  life,  I 
often  regret  that  1  had  not  more  courage,  for  there  is  in 
us  all  a  certain  restlessness  in  the  persuasion,  whether 
true  or  false,  of  superior  knowledge  or  intellect,  and 
this  urges  us  on  to  the  proof;  or,  if  we  resist  its  im- 
pulse, renders  us  discontented  with  our  idleness,  and 
disappointed  with  the  past.  I  have  everything  now  in 
my  possession  which  it  has  been  the  desire  of  my  later 
years  to  enjoy;  health,  retirement,  successful  study,  and 
the  affection  of  one  in  whose  breast,  when  I  am  gone, 
my  memory  will  not  utterly  pass  away.  With  these 
advantages,  added  to  the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  an  ha- 
bitual elasticity  of  spirit,  I  confess  that  my  happiness 
is  not  free  from  a  biting  and  frequent  regret :  I  would 
fain  have  been  a  better  citizen ;  I  would  fain  have  died 
in  the  consciousness,  not  only  that  I  had  improved  my 
mind  to  the  utmost,  but  that  I  had  turned  that  improve- 
ment to  the  benefit  of  my  fellow-creatures.  As  it  is,  in 
living  wholly  for  myself  I  feel  that  my  philosophy  has 
wanted  generosity;  and  my  indifference  to  glory  has 
proceeded  from  a  weakness,  not,  as  I  once  persuaded 
myself,  from  a  virtue;  but  the  fruitlessness  of  my  ex- 
istence has  been  the  consequence  of  the  arduous  frivoli- 
ties and  the  petty  objects  in  which  my  early  years  were 
consumed;  and  my  mind,  in  losing  the  enjoyments 
which  it  formerly  possessed,  had  no  longer  the  vigor  to 


THE   DISOWNED.  9 

create  for  itself  a  new  soil,  from  which  labor  it  could 
only  hope  for  more  valuable  fruits.  It  is  no  contradic- 
tion to  see  those  who  most  eagerly  courted  society  in 
their  youth  shrink  from  it  the  most  sensitively  in  their 
age;  for  they  who  possess  certain  advantages,  and  are 
morbidly  vain  of  them,  will  naturally  be  disposed  to 
seek  that  sphere  for  which  those  advantages  are  best 
calculated ;  and  when  youth  and  its  concomitants  depart, 
the  vanity  so  long  fed  still  remains,  and  perpetually 
mortifies  them  by  recalling,  not  so  much  the  qualities 
they  have  lost,  as  the  esteem  which  those  qualities  con- 
ferred, and  by  contrasting  not  so  much  their  own  present 
alteration  as  the  change  they  experience  in  the  respect 
and  consideration  of  others.  What  wonder,  then,  that 
they  eagerly  fly  from  the  world,  which  has  only  morti- 
fication for  their  self-love,  or  that  Ave  find,  in  biography, 
how  often  the  most  assiduous  votaries  of  pleasure  have 
become  the  most  rigid  of  recluses.  For  my  part,  I  think 
that  that  love  of  solitude  which  the  ancients  so  emi- 
nently possessed,  and  which  to  this  day  is  considered  by 
some  as  the  sign  of  a  great  mind,  nearly  always  arises 
from  a  tenderness  of  vanity,  easily  wounded  in  the 
commerce  of  the  rough  world ;  and  that  it  is  under  the 
shadow  of  disappointment  that  we  must  look  for  the  her- 
mitage. Diderot  did  well,  even  at  the  risk  of  offending 
Kousseau,  to  write  against  solitude.  The  more  a  mor- 
alist binds  man  to  man,  and  forbids  us  to  divorce  our 
interests  from  our  kind,  the  more  effectually  is  the  end 
of  morality  obtained.  They  only  are  justifiable  in 
seclusion  who,  like  the  Greek  philosophers,  make  that 
very  seclusion  the  means  of  serving  and  enlightening 
their  race,  —  who  from  their  retreats  send  forth  their 
oracles  of  wisdom,  and  render  the  desert  which  sur- 
rounds them  eloquent  with  the   voice  of   truth.     But 


10  THE   DISOWNED. 

remember,  Clarence  (and  let  my  life,  useless  in  itself, 
have  at  least  this  moral),  that  for  him  who  in  nowise 
cultivates  his  talent  for  the  benefit  of  others;  who  is 
contented  with  being  a  good  hermit  at  the  expense  of 
being  a  bad  citizen ;  who  looks  from  his  retreat  upon  a 
life  wasted  in  the  difficiles  nugce  of  the  most  frivolous 
part  of  the  world,  nor  redeems  in  the  closet  tlie  time  he 
has  misspent  in  the  saloon,  —  remember,  that  for  him 
seclusion  loses  its  dignity,  philosophy  its  comfort,  be- 
nevolence its  hope,  and  even  religion  its  balm.  Knowl- 
edge, unemployed,  may  preserve  us  from  vice;  but 
knowledge  beneficently  employed  is  virtue.  Perfect  hap- 
piness, in  our  present  state,  is  impossible;  for  Hobbes 
says  justly,  that  our  nature  is  inseparable  from  desires, 
and  that  the  very  word  desire  (the  craving  for  something 
not  possessed)  implies  that  our  present  felicity  is  not 
complete.  But  there  is  one  way  of  attaining  what  we 
may  term,  if  not  utter,  at  least  mortal  happiness ;  it  is 
this,  —  a  sincere  and  unrelaxing  activity  for  the  happi- 
ness of  others.  In  that  one  maxim  is  concentrated  what- 
ever is  noble  in  morality,  sublime  in  religion,  or  un- 
answerable in  truth.  In  that  pursuit  we  have  all  scope 
for  whatever  is  excellent  in  our  hearts,  and  none  for  the 
petty  passions  which  our  nature  is  heir  to.  Thus  en- 
gaged, whatever  be  our  errors,  there  will  be  nobility, 
not  weakness,  in  our  remorse;  whatever  our  failure, 
virtue,  not  selfishness,  in  our  regret;  and  in  success, 
vanity  itself  will  become  holy  and  triumph  eternal. 
As  astrologers  were  wont  to  receive  upon  metals  '  the 
benign  aspect  of  the  stars,  so  as  to  detain  and  fix,  as  it 
were,  the  felicity  of  that  hour  which  would  otherwise 
be  volatile  and  fugitive,'  ^  even  so  will  that  success 
leave  imprinted  upon  our  memory  a  blessing  which 
1  Bacon. 


THE   DISOWNED.  11 

cannot  pass  away,  —  preserve  forever  upon  our  names, 
as  on  a  signet,  the  hallowed  influence  of  the  hour  in 
which  our  great  end  was  effected,  and  treasure  up  '  the 
relics  of  heaven  '  in  the  sanctuary  of  a  human  fame. " 

As  the  old  man  ceased,  there  was  a  faint  and  hectic 
flush  over  his  face,  an  enthusiasm  on  his  features,  which 
age  made  almost  holy,  and  which  Clarence  had  never 
observed  there  before.  In  truth,  his  young  listener  was 
deeply  affected,  and  the  advice  of  his  adopted  parent  was 
afterwards  impressed  with  a  more  awful  solemnity  upon 
his  remembrance.  Already  he  had  acquired  much 
worldly  lore  from  Talbot's  precepts  and  conversation. 
He  had  obtained  even  something  better  than  worldly 
lore,  — a  kindly  and  indulgent  disposition  to  his  fellow- 
creatures;  for  he  had  seen  that  foibles  were  not  incon- 
sistent with  generous  and  great  qualities,  and  that  we 
judge  wrongly  of  human  nature  when  we  ridicule  its 
littleness.  The  very  circumstances  which  make  the 
shallow  misanthropical,  incline  the  wise  to  be  benevo- 
lent. Fools  discover  that  frailty  is  not  incompatible 
with  great  men:  they  wonder  and  despise;  but  the  dis- 
cerning find  that  greatness  is  not  incompatible  with 
frailty,  and  they  admire  and  indulge. 

But  a  still  greater  benefit  than  this  of  toleration  did 
Clarence  derive  from  the  commune  of  that  night.  He 
became  strengthened  in  his  honorable  ambition,  and 
nerved  to  unrelaxing  exertion.  The  recollection  of  Tal- 
bot's last  words,  on  that  night,  occurred  to  him  often 
and  often  when  sick  at  heart,  and  languid  with  baffled 
hope !  —  it  roused  him  from  that  gloom  and  despondency 
which  are  always  unfavorable  to  virtue,  and  incited  him 
once  more  to  that  labor  in  the  vineyard  which,  whether 
our  hour  be  late  or  early,  will,  if  earnest,  obtain  a  bless- 
ing and  reward. 


12  THE   DISOWNED. 

The  hour  was  now  waxing  late,  and  Talbot,  mindful 
of  his  companion's  health,  rose  to  retire.  As  he  pressed 
Clarence's  hand  and  hatle  him  farewell  for  the  night, 
Linden  tliought  there  was  sometliing  more  tlian  usu- 
ally impressive  in  his  manner  and  alFectionate  in  liis 
words.  Perhaps  this  was  the  natural  result  of  their 
conversation. 

The  next  morning  Clarence  was  awakened  by  a  noise. 
He  listened,  and  heard  distinctly  an  alarmed  cry  pro- 
ceeding from  the  room  in  which  Talbot  slej)t,  and  which 
was  opposite  to  his  own.  He  rose  hastily  and  hurried 
to  the  chamber.  The  door  was  open,  tlie  old  servant 
was  bending  over  the  bed;  Clarence  approached,  and 
saw  that  he  supported  his  master  in  his  arms.  "  Good 
God!  "  he  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter?  "  The  faithful 
old  man  lifted  up  his  face  to  Clarence,  and  the  big  tears 
rolled  fast  from  eyes,  in  which  the  sources  of  such 
emotion  were  well-nigh  dried  up. 

"  He  loved  you  well,  sir!  "  he  said,  and  could  say  no 
more.  He  dropped  the  body  gently,  and  throwing  him- 
self on  the  floor,  sobbed  aloud.  With  a  foreboding  and 
chilled  heart,  Clarence  bent  forward;  the  face  of  his 
benefactor  lay  directly  before  him,  and  the  hand  of 
death  was  upon  it.  The  soul  had  passed  to  its  account 
hours  since,  in  the  hush  of  night:  passed,  apparently, 
without  a  struggle  or  a  pang,  like  the  wind,  which  ani- 
mates the  harp  one  moment,  and  the  next  is  gone. 

Linden  seized  his  hand,  — it  was  heavy  and  cold,  his 
eye  rested  upon  the  miniature  of  the  unfortunate  Lady 
Merton,  which,  since  the  night  of  the  attempted  robbery, 
Talbot  had  worn  constantly  round  his  neck.  Strange 
and  powerful  was  the  contrast  of  the  pictured  face,  in 
which  not  a  color  had  yet  faded,  and  wliere  the  hues 
and  fulness  and  prime  of  youth  dwelt,   unconscious  of 


THE   DISOWNED.  13 

the  lapse  of  years,  with  the  aged  and  shrunken  coimte- 
nance  of  the  deceased. 

In  that  contrast  was  a  sad  and  mighty  moral;  it 
wrought,  as  it  were,  a  contract  between  youth  and  age, 
and  conveyed  a  rapid  but  full  history  of  our  passions  and 
our  life. 

The  servant  looked  up  once  more  on  the  countenance ; 
he  pointed  towards  it,  and  muttered,  "  See,  —  see!  how 
awfully  it  is  changed!  " 

"  But  there  is  a  smile  upon  it!  "  said  Clarence,  as  he 
flung  himself  beside  the  body,  and  burst  into  tears. 


14  THE    DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

Virtue  is  like  precious  odors,  most  frap;rant  when  they  are  incensed 
or  cruslied ;  for  prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice,  but  adversity 
doth  best  discover  virtue.  —  Bacon. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  while  Talbot  was  be- 
queathing to  Clarence,  as  the  most  valuable  of  legacies, 
the  doctrines  of  a  philosophy  he  had  acquired,  perhaps 
too  late  to  practise,  Glendower  was  carrying  tliose  very 
doctrines,  so  far  as  his  limited  sphere  Avould  allow,  into 
the  rule  and  exercise  of  his  life. 

Since  the  death  of  the  bookseller,  Avhich  we  have 
before  recorded,  Glendower  had  been  left  utterly  with- 
out resource.  The  others  to  whom  he  applied  were  indis- 
posed to  avail  themselves  of  an  unknown  ability.  The 
trade  of  book-making  was  not  then  as  it  is  now,  and 
if  it  liad  been,  it  would  not  have  suggested  itself  to  the 
high-spirited  and  unworldly  student.  Some  publishers 
offered,  it  is  true,  a  reward  tempting  enough  for  an  im- 
moral tale ;  others  spoke  of  the  value  of  an  attack  upon 
the  Americans;  one  suggested  an  ode  to  the  minister; 
and  another  hinted  tliat  a  pension  might  possibly  be 
granted  to  one  who  would  prove  extortion  not  tyranny. 
But  these  insinuations  fell  upon  a  dull  ear,  and  the 
tribe  of  Barabbas  were  astonished  to  find  that  an  author 
could  imagine  interest  and  principle  not  synonymous. 

Struggling  with  want,  which  hourly  grew  more  im- 
perious and  urgent;  wasting  his  heart  on  studies  which 
brought  fever  to  his  pulse,  and  disappointment  to  his 
ambition ;  gnawed  to  the  very  soul  by  the  mortifications 
which  his  poverty  gave  to  his  pride;  and  watching  with 


THE   DISOWNED.  15 

tearless  eyes,  but  a  maddening  brain,  the  slender  form  of 
his  wife,  now  waxing  weaker  and  fainter,  as  the  canker 
of  disease  fastened  upon  the  core  of  her  yoimg  but 
blighted  life,  — there  was  yet  a  high,  though,  alas!  not 
constant  consolation  within  him,  whenever,  from  the 
troubles  of  this  dim  spot  his  thoughts  could  escape,  like 
birds  released  from  their  cage,  and  lose  themselves  in 
the  lustre  and  freedom  of  their  native  heaven. 

"  If,"  thought  he,  as  he  looked  upon  his  secret  and 
treasured  work,  —  "  if  the  wind  scatter,  or  the  rock  re- 
ceive these  seeds ,  they  were  at  least  dispersed  by  a  hand 
which  asked  no  seliish  return,  and  a  heart  which  would 
have  lavished  the  harvest  of  its  labors  upon  those  who 
know  not  the  husbandman,  and  trample  his  hopes  into 
the  dust. " 

But,  by  degrees,  this  comfort  cf  a  noble  and  generous 
nature,  these  whispers  of  a  vanity  rather  to  be  termed 
holy  than  excusable,  began  to  grow  unfrequent  and  low. 
The  cravings  of  a  more  engrossing  and  heavy  want  than 
those  of  the  mind,  came  eagerly  and  rapidly  upon  him; 
the  fair  cheek  of  his  infant  became  pinched  and  hollow ; 
his  wife  conquered  nature  itself  by  love,  and  starved  her- 
self in  silence,  and  set  bread  before  him  with  a  smile, 
and  bade  him  eat. 

"  But  you,  —  you  ?  "  he  would  ask  inquiringly ,  and 
then  pause. 

"I  have  dined,  dearest:  I  want  nothing;  eat,  love, 
eat." 

But  he  ate  not.  The  food  robbed  from  her  seemed  to 
him  more  deadly  than  poison;  and  he  would  rise  and 
dash  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  go  forth  alone,  with 
nature  unsatisfied,  to  look  upon  this  luxurious  world, 
and  learn  content. 

It  was  after  such  a  scene  that,  one  day,  he  wandered 


16  THE   DISOWNED. 

forth  into  the  streets,  desperate  ami  confused  in  mind, 
and  fainting  with  liunger,  and  half  insane  with  fiery  and 
wrong  thoughts,  which  dashed  over  his  barren  and 
gloomy  soul,  and  desolated,  but  conquered  not!  It 
was  evening ;  he  stood  (for  he  had  stridden  on  so  rapidly 
at  first  that  his  strength  was  now  exhausted,  and  he  was 
forced  to  pause)  leaning  against  the  railed  area  of  a 
house,  in  a  lone  and  inifrequented  street.  No  passenger 
shared  the  dull  and  obscure  thorouglifare.  He  stood, 
literally,  in  scene  as  in  heart,  solitary  amidst  the  great 
city,  and  wherever  he  looked,  —  lo!  there  were  none  ! 

"  Two  days,"  said  he,  slowly  and  faintly,  —  "  two  days, 
and  bread  has  only  once  passed  my  lips;  and  that  was 
snatched  from  her,  —  from  those  lips  which  I  have  fed 
with  sweet  and  holy  kisses,  and  whence  my  sole  comfort 
in  this  weary  life  has  been  drawn.  And  she,  — ay,  she 
starves,  and  my  child  too.  They  complain  not,  they 
murmur  not;  but  they  lift  up  their  eyes  to  me  and  ask 
for — merciful  God,  thou  didst  make  man  in  benevo- 
lence ;  thou  dost  survey  this  world  with  a  pitying  and 
paternal  eye,  —  save,  comfort,  cherish  them,  and  crush 
me  if  thou  wilt !  " 

At  tliat  moment  a  man  darted  suddenly  from  an  ob- 
scure alley,  and  passed  Glendower  at  full  speed;  pres- 
ently came  a  cry  and  a  shout  and  the  rapid  trampling 
of  feet,  and  in  another  moment,  an  eager  and  breathless 
crowd  rushed  upon  the  solitude  of  the  street. 

"  Where  is  he  1  "  cried  a  hundred  voices  to  Glendower, 
—  "  where  —  which  road  did  the  robber  take  1  "  But 
Glendower  could  not  answer ;  his  nerves  Avere  unstrung, 
and  his  dizzy  brain  sAvam  and  reeled;  and  tlie  faces 
wliich  peered  upon  him,  and  the  voices  whicli  shrieked 
and  y(dle<l  in  liis  car,  were  to  him  as  the  foi'ms  and 
sounds  of  a  ghastly  and  phantasmal  world.     His  head 


THE    DISOWNED.  17 

dropped  upon  his  bosom,  he  clung  to  the  area  for  sup- 
port; the  crowd  passed  on, — they  were  in  pursuit  of 
guilt,  they  were  thirsting  after  blood,  they  were  going  to 
fill  the  dungeon  and  feed  the  gibbet, —  what  to  them  was 
the  virtue  they  could  have  supported,  or  the  famine  they 
could  have  relieved?  But  they  knew  not  his  distress, 
nor  the  extent  of  his  weakness,  or  some  would  have 
tarried  and  aided,  for  there  is,  after  all,  as  much  kind- 
ness as  cruelty  in  our  nature ;  perhaps  they  thought  it 
was  only  some  intoxicated  and  maudlin  idler,  —  or,  per- 
haps, in  the  heat  of  their  pursuit,  they  thought  not  at 
all. 

So  they  rolled  on,  and  their  voices  died  away,  and 
their  steps  were  hushed,  and  Glendower,  insensible  and 
cold  as  the  iron  he  clung  to,  was  once  more  alone. 
Slowly  he  revived ;  he  opened  his  dim  and  glazing  eyes, 
and  saw  the  evening  star  break  from  its  chamber,  and, 
though  sullied  by  the  thick  and  foggy  air,  scatter  its 
holy  smiles  upon  the  polluted  city. 

He  looked  quietly  on  the  still  night,  and  its  first 
watcher  among  the  hosts  of  heaven,  and  felt  something 
of  balm  sink  into  his  soul;  not,  indeed,  that  vague  and 
delicious  calm  which,  in  his  boyhood  of  poesy  and  ro- 
mance, he  had  drmik  in,  by  green  solitudes,  from  the 
mellow  twilight,  but  a  quiet,  sad  and  sober,  circling 
gradually  over  his  mind,  and  bringing  it  back  from  its 
confused  and  disordered  visions  and  darkness,  to  the 
recollection  and  reality  of  his  bitter  life. 

By  degrees,  the  scene  he  had  so  imperfectly  witnessed, 
the  flight  of  the  robber,  and  the  eager  pursuit  of  the 
mob,  grew  over  him:  a  dark  and  guilty  thought  burst 
upon  his  mind. 

"I  am  a  man,  like  that  criminal,"  said  he,  fiercely. 
"  I  have  nerves,  sinews,  muscles,  flesh;  I  feel  hunger, 

VOL.  II. —  2 


18  THE    DISOWNED. 

thirst,  pain,  as  acutely;  ■why  shoukl  T  endure  more  than 
he  can?  Perhaps  he  had  a  wife,  a  chihl,  — and  he  saw 
them  starving  inch  by  inch,  and  he  felt  that  he  ought  to 
be  their  protector,  and  so  he  sinned.  And  1  —  I ,  can  I 
not  sin  too  for  mine;  can  I  not  dare  what  the  wild  beast 
and  the  vulture  and  the  fierce  hearts  of  my  brethren 
dare  for  their  mates  and  young?  One  gripe  of  this  hand, 
one  cry  from  this  voice,  and  my  board  might  be  heaped 
with  plenty,  and  my  child  fed,  and  she  smile  as  she  was 
wont  to  smile,  —  for  one  night  at  least." 

And  as  these  thoughts  broke  upon  him,  Glendower 
rose,  and  with  a  step  firm  even  in  weakness,  he  strode 
unconsciously  onward. 

A  figure  appeared;  Glendower's  heart  beat  thick. 
He  slouched  his  hat  over  his  brows,  and  for  one  moment 
wrestled  with  his  pride  and  his  stern  virtue ;  the  virtue 
conquered,  but  not  the  pride;  the  virtue  forbade  him  to 
be  the  robber, —  the  pride  submitted  to  be  the  suppliant. 
He  sprang  forward,  extended  his  hands  towards  the 
stranger,  and  cried  in  a  sharp  voice,  the  agony  of  which 
rang  through  the  long  dull  street  with  a  sudden  and 
echoless  sound,  "  Charity, —  food!  " 

The  stranger  paused,  —  one  of  the  boldest  of  men  in 
his  own  line,  he  was  as  timid  as  a  woman  in  any  otlicr; 
mistaking  the  meaning  of  the  petitioner,  and  terrified  by 
the  vehemence  of  his  gesture,  he  said,  in  a  trembling 
tone,  as  he  hastily  pulled  out  his  purse, — 

"There,  there!  do  not  hurt  me!  Take  it,  —  take 
all !  " 

Glendower  knew  the  voice,  as  a  sound  not  unfamiliar 
to  him;  his  pride  returned  in  full  force.  "Xone," 
thought  he,  "  who  know  me,  shall  know  my  full  degra- 
dation also. ^'  And  he  turned  away;  Itut  the  stranger, 
mistaking  this  motion,  extended  his  hand  to  him,  saying 


THE   nSOWNED.  19 

"Take  this,  my  friend, —  yon  will  have  no  need  of 
violence ! "  and  as  he  advanced  nearer  to  his  supposed 
assailant,  he  beheld,  by  the  pale  lamp-light,  and  in- 
stantly recognized  his  features. 

"Ah!"  cried  he,  in  astonishment,  but  with  internal 
rejoicing,  —  "  ah !  is  it  you  Avho  are  thus  reduced  !  " 

"You  say  right,  Crauford,"  said  Glendower,  sullenly, 
and  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  "it  is  // 
but  you  are  mistaken ;  I  am  a  beggar,  not  a  ruffian !  " 

"  Good  Heavens  !  "  answered  Crauford;  "how  fortu- 
nate that  we  should  meet !  Providence  watches  over  us 
unceasingly  !  I  have  long  sought  you  in  vain.  But  " 
(and  here  the  wayward  malignity,  sometimes,  though 
not  always,  the  characteristic  of  Crauford's  nature,  irre- 
sistibly broke  out)  — •"  but  that  you,  of  all  men,  should 
suffer  so, — ^  you,  proud,  susceptible,  virtuous  beyond 
human  virtue;  you,  whose  fibres  are  as  acute  as  the 
naked  eye,  —  that  you  should  bear  this,  and  wince  not !  " 

"You  do  my  humanity  wrong!"  said  Glendower, 
with  a  bitter  and  almost  ghastly  smile ;  "  I  do  worse 
than  wince!  " 

"  Ay,  is  it  so  !  "  said  Crauford:  "  have  you  awakened 
at  last?  Has  your  philosophy  taken  a  more  impassioned 
dye?" 

"Mock  me  not!"  cried  Glendower;  and  his  eye, 
usually  soft  in  its  deep  thoughtfulness,  glared  wild  and 
savage  upon  the  hypocrite  who  stood  trembling,  yet 
half  sneering,  at  the  storm  he  had  raised,  "  my  passions 
are  even  now  beyond  my  mastery;  loose  them  not  upon 
you!" 

"Kay,"  said  Crauford,  gently,  "I  meant  not  to  vex 
or  wound  you.  I  have  sought  you  several  times  since 
the  last  night  we  met,  but  in  vain;  you  had  left  your 
lodgings,  and  none  knew  whither.     I  would  fain  talk 


20  THE  DISOWN i:d. 

with  you.  I  have  a  scheme  to  propose  to  you  which 
will  make  you  rich  forever,  rich,  —  literally  rich!^ 
not  merely  above  poverty,  but  high  in  affluence  !  " 

Glendower  looked  incredulously  at  the  speaker,  who 
continued,  — 

"  The  scheme  has  danger, —  that  you  can  dare  !  " 

Glendower  Avas  still  silent;  but  his  set  and  stern 
countenance  was  sufficient  reply.  "  Some  sacrifice  of 
your  pride,"  continued  Crauford,  — "  that  also  you  can 
bear  1  "  and  the  tempter  almost  grinned  with  i:)leasure  as 
he  asked  the  question. 

"  He  who  is  poor,"  said  Glendower,  speaking  at  last, 
"  has  a  right  to  pride.  He  wlio  starves  has  it  too ;  but 
he  who  sees  those  whom  he  loves  famish,  and  cannot  aid, 
has  it  not !  " 

"Come  home  with  me,  then,"  said  Crauford;  "you 
seem  faint  and  weak :  nature  craves  food ;  come  and 
partake  of  mine,  —  we  will  then  talk  over  this  scheme, 
and  arrange  its  completion. " 

"  I  cannot,"  answered  Glendower,  quietly. 

"  And  why  1  " 

"  Because  they  starve  at  home !  " 

"  Heavens  !  "  said  Crauford,  atfected  for  a  moment  into 
sincerity,  — "  it  is  indeed  fortunate  that  business  should 
liave  led  me  here;  but,  meanwhile,  you  will  not  refuse 
this  trifle,  —  as  a  loan  merely.  By-and-by  our  scheme 
will  make  you  so  rich  that  I  must  be  the  borrower. " 

Glendower  did  hesitate  for  a  moment,  —  he  did  swal- 
low a  bitter  rising  of  the  heart;  but  he  thought  of  those 
at  home,  and  the  struggle  was  over. 

"I  thank  you,"  said  he,  —  "I  thank  you  for  tlieir 
sake:  the  time  may  come,"  —  and  the  proud  gentleman 
stopped  short,  for  his  desolate  fortunes  rose  before  him, 
and  forbade  all  hope  of  the  future. 


THE   DISOWNED.  21 

"  Yes  !  "  cried  Crauford,  "  the  time  may  come  when 
you  will  repay  me  this  money  a  hundredfold.  But 
where  do  you  live?  You  are  silent.  Well,  you  will  not 
inform  me, —  I  understand  you.  Meet  me,  then,  here,  on 
this  very  spot,  three  nights  hence,  —  you  will  not  fail  ?  " 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Glendower;  and  pressing  Crauford's 
hand  with  a  generous  and  grateful  warmth,  which  might 
have  softened  a  heartless  ohdurate,  he  turned  away. 

Folding  his  arms  while  a  bitter  yet  joyous  expression 
crossed  his  countenance,  Crauford  stood  still,  gazing 
upon  the  retreating  form  of  the  noble  and  unfortunate 
man  whom  he  had  marked  for  destruction. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "this  virtue  is  a  fine  thing,  a  very 
fine  thing  to  talk  so  loftily  about.  A  little  craving 
of  the  gastric  juices,  a  little  pinching  of  this  vile  body, 
as  your  philosophers  and  saints  call  our  better  part,  and, 
lo  !  virtue  oozes  out  like  water  through  a  leaky  vessel, 
—  and  the  vessel  sinks!  No,  no;  virtue  is  a  weak  game, 
and  a  poor  game,  and  a  losing  game.  Why,  there  is 
that  man,  the  very  pink  of  integrity  and  rectitude,  he 
is  now  only  wanting  temptation  to  fall,  —  and  he  will 
fall,  in  a  fine  phrase,  too,  I  '11  be  sworn!  And  then, 
having  once  fallen,  there  will  be  no  medium,  — he  will 
become  utterly  corrupt;  while  /,  honest  Dick  Crauford, 
doing  as  other  wise  men  do,  cheat  a  trick  or  two,  in 
playing  with  fortune,  without  being  a  whit  the  worse 
for  it.  Do  I  not  subscribe  to  charities;  am  I  not  con- 
stant at  church,  ay,  and  meeting  to  boot;  kind  to  my 
servants,  obliging  to  my  friends,  loyal  to  my  king? 
'Gad,  if  I  were  less  loving  to  myself,  I  should  have  been 
far  less  useful  to  my  country  !  And  now,  now,  let  me 
see  what  has  brought  me  to  these  filthy  suburbs  !     Ah, 

Madam  H .     Woman,  incomparable  woman  !     On, 

Hichard  Crauford,  thou  hast  made  a  good  night's  work 


22  THE   DISOWNED. 

of  it  hitherto  !  —  business  seasons  pleasure  !  "  and  tlie 
villain  upon  system  moved  away. 

Glendower  hastened  to  his  home;  it  was  miserably 
changed,  even  from  the  humble  abode  in  which  we 
last  saw  him.  The  unfortunate  pair  had  chosen  their 
present  residence  from  a  melancholy  refinement  in  lux- 
ury;  they  had  chosen  it  because  none  else  shared  it  with 
them,  and  their  famine  and  pride  and  struggles  and 
despair  were  without  witness  or  pity. 

With  a  heavy  step  Glendower  entered  the  chamber 
where  his  wife  sat.  When  at  a  distance  he  had  heard  a 
faint  moan,  but  as  he  had  approached,  it  ceased;  for  she, 
from  whom  it  came,  knew  his  step,  and  hushed  her  grief 
and  pain,  that  they  might  not  add  to  his  own.  The 
peevishness,  the  querulous  and  stinging  irritations  of 
want,  came  not  to  that  affectionate  and  kindly  lieart; 
nor  could  all  those  biting  and  bitter  evils  of  fate,  which 
turn  the  love  that  is  born  of  luxury  into  rancour  and 
gall,  scathe  the  beautiful  and  holy  passion  which  had 
knit  into  one  those  two  unearthly  natures.  They  rather 
clung  the  closer  to  each  other,  as  all  things  in  heaven 
and  earth  spoke  in  tempest  or  in  gloom  around  tliem, 
and  coined  their  sorrows  into  endearment,  and  their 
looks  into  smiles,  and  strove  each  from  the  depth  of 
despair,  to  pluck  hope  and  comfort  for  the  other. 

This,  it  is  true,  was  more  striking  and  constant  in 
her  than  in  Glendower;  for  in  love,  man,  be  he  ever  so 
generous,  is  always  outdone.  Yet  even  when  in  moments 
of  extreme  passion  and  conflict,  the  strife  broke  from 
his  breast  into  words,  never  once  was  his  discontent 
vented  upon  her,  nor  hia  reproaches  lavished  on  any  but 
fortune  or  himself,  nor  his  murmurs  mingled  with  a 
single  breath  wounding  to  her  tenderness,  or  detracting 
from  his  love. 


THE    DISOWNED.  23 

He  threw  open  the  door;  the  wretched  light  cast  its 
sickly  beams  over  the  squalid  walls,  foul  with  green 
damps,  and  the  miserable  yet  clean  bed,  and  the  tireless 
hearth,  and  the  empty  board,  and  the  pale  cheek  of  the 
wife,  as  she  rose  and  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and 
murmured  out  her  joy  and  welcome.  "  There,"  said  he, 
as  he  extricated  himself  from  her,  and  flung  the  money 
upon  the  table, — "there,  love,  pine  no  more,  feed 
yourself  and  our  daughter,  and  then  let  us  sleep  and  be 
happy  in  our  dreams. " 

A  writer,  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  the  present  day, 
has  told  the  narrator  of  this  history,  that  no  interest  of 
a  high  nature  can  be  given  to  extreme  poverty.  I  know 
not  if  this  be  true;  yet  if  I  mistake  not  our  human 
feelings,  there  is  nothing  so  exalted  or  so  divine  as  a 
great  and  brave  spirit  working  out  its  end  through  every 
earthly  obstacle  and  evil,  —  watching  through  the  utter 
darkness,  and  steadily  defying  the  phantoms  which 
crowd  around  it;  wrestling  with  the  mighty  allure- 
ments, and  rejecting  the  fearful  voices  of  that  want 
which  is  the  deadliest  and  surest  of  human  tempters; 
nursing  through  all  calamity  the  love  of  species,  and 
the  warmer  and  closer  afi'ections  of  private  ties;  sacri- 
ficing no  duty,  resisting  all  sin;  and,  amidst  every 
horror  and  every  humiliation,  feeding  the  still  and 
bright  light  of  that  genius,  which,  like  the  lamp  of  the 
fabulist,  though  it  may  waste  itself  for  years  amidst  the 
depths  of  solitude,  and  the  silence  of  the  tomb,  shall  live 
and  burn  immortal  and  undimmed,  when  all  around  it  is 
rottenness  and  decay  ! 

And  yet  I  confess  that  it  is  a  painful  and  bitter  task 
to  record  the  humiliations,  the  wearing,  petty,  stinging 
humiliations  of  poverty :  to  count  the  drops  as  they 
slowly  fall,  one  by  one,  upon  the  fretted  and  indignant 


24  THE   DISOWNED. 

heart;  to  parti cularizo,   with   the  scrupulous  and   nice 
]ian(l   of  imliireronce,  the  fractional  and  divided  move- 
ments in  the   dial-plate  of  misery;  to  hehold  the  refine- 
ment of  biitli,  the  masculine  pride  of  ])lood,  tlie  digni- 
ties of  intellect,  tlie  wealth  of  knowk'd^^e,  the  delicacy 
and  graces  of  womanhood,  —all  tliat  ennolile  and  soften 
the  stony  mass  of  commonplaces  which  is  our  life,  frit- 
tered into  atoms,  trampled  into  the  dust  and  mire  of  the 
meanest   thoroughfares  of  distress;    life  and   soul,    the 
energies  and  aims  of  man,  ground  into  one  prostrating 
want,    cramped  into  one   levelling   sympathy  with   the 
dregs    and  refuse  of  his    kind,  blistered    into  a    single 
galling  and  festering  sore.     This  is,  I  own,  a  painful  and 
a  hitter  task;  but  it  hath  its  redemption,  —  a  pride  even 
in  debasement,  a  pleasure  even  in  woe;  and  it  is  there- 
fore that,  while  I  have  abridged,  I  have  not  shunned  it. 
There  are  some  whom  the  lightning  of  fortune  blasts, 
only    to    render    holy.       Amidst   all    tliat  humbles  and 
scathes,     amidst   all    that    shatters    from    their    life    its 
verdure,  smites  to  the  dust  the  pomp   and    summit   of 
their  pride,  and  in  the  very  heart  of  existence  writeth  a 
sudden  and  "  strange  defeature,"  thei/ stand  erect,  riven, 
not    uprooted ,  —  a  monument  less  of  pity  than  of  awe ! 
There  are  some  who  pass   through  the    Lazar-house  of 
misery  with  a  step  more  august  than  a  Caesar's  in  his 
hall.     The  very  things  which,  seen  alone,  are  despicable 
and  vile,  associated  with  them,  become  almost  venerable 
and  divine;  and  one  ray,  however  dim  and  feeble,  of 
that  intense  holiness  which,  in  the  infant  God,  shed 
majesty    over  the  manger  and  the  straw,  not  denied  to 
those  who,  in  the  depth  of  affliction,  cherish  His  patient 
image,  flings   over   the  meanest   localities  of   earth  an 
emanation  from  the  glory  of  Heaven! 


THE  DISOWNED.  25 


CHAPTER   L. 

Letters  from  divers  hands,  which  will  absolve 
Ourselves  from  long  narration. 

Tanner  of  Tyburn. 

One  morning,  about  a  fortnight  after  Talbot's  death, 
Clarence  was  sitting  alone,  thoughtful  and  melancholy, 
when  the  three  following  letters  were  put  into  his 
hand : — 

LETTER   FROM   THE   DUKE   OF   HAVERFIELD. 

Let  me,  my  dear  Linden,  be  the  first  to  congratulate  you 
upon  your  accession  of  fortune  :  five  thousand  a  3'ear,  Scars- 
dale,  and  eighty  thousand  pounds  in  the  Funds,  are  very  pretty 
foes  to  starvation  !  Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  if  you  had  but  shot 
that  frosty  Caucasus  of  humanity,  that  pillar  of  the  state,  made 
not  to  bend,  that  —  but  you  know  already  whom  I  mean,  and 
so  I  will  spare  you  more  of  my  lamentable  metaphors :  had 
you  shot  Lord  Borodaile,  your  happiness  would  now  be  com- 
plete !  Everybody  talks  of  your  luck.  La  Meronville  tending 
on  you  with  her  white  hands,  the  prettiest  hands  in  the  world, 
—  who  would  not  be  wounded,  even  by  Lord  Borodaile,  for 
such  a  nurse  ?  And  then  Talbot's  —  yet,  I  will  not  speak  of 
that,  for  j-^ou  are  very  unlike  the  present  generation  ;  and  who 
knows  but  you  may  have  some  gratitude,  some  affection,  some 
natural  feeling  in  you.  1  had  once  ;  but  that  was  before  I 
went  to  France,  —  those  Parisians,  with  their  fine  sentiments 
and  witty  philosophy,  play  the  devil  with  one's  good,  old- 
fashioned  feelings.  So  Lord  Aspeden  is  to  have  an  Italian 
ministry.  By  the  by,  shall  you  go  with  him,  or  will  you  not 
rather  stay  at  home,  and  enjoy  your  new  fortunes:  hunt,  race? 
diue  out,  dance,  vote  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and,  in  short, 


26  THE   DISOWNED. 

do  all  that  an  Eiiglislnuan  and  a  gentleman  should  do  ?  Orna- 
mento  e  splendor  del  secol  nostro.  Write  me  a  line  whenever 
you  have  nothing  better  to  do  ;  and  believe  me,  most  truly 
yours, 

Haverfield. 

Will  you  sell  your  black  mare,  or  will  you  buy  my  brown 
one  ?  Utrum  horum  mavis  accipe,  the  only  piece  of  Latin  I 
remember. 

LETTER  FROM  LORD  ASPEDEN. 

My  dear  Linden,  —  Suffer  me  to  enter  most  fully  into  your 
feeling.  Death,  my  friend,  is  common  to  all ;  we  must  sub- 
mit to  its  dispensations.  I  heard  accidentally  of  the  great 
fortune  left  you  by  Mr.  Talbot  (your  father,  I  suppose  I  may 
venture  to  call  hini).  Lideed,  though  there  is  a  silly  preju- 
dice against  illegitimacy,  yet,  as  our  immortal  bard  says, 

Wherefore  base  1 
When  thy  dimensions  are  as  well  compact, 
Thy  miud  as  geuerous  and  thy  shape  as  true 
As  honest  madam's  issue  ! 

For  my  part,  my  dear  Linden,  I  say  on  your  belialf,  that  it  la 
very  likely  that  you  are  a  natural  son,  for  such  are  always  the 
luckiest  and  the  best. 

You  have  probably  heard  of  the  honor  his  Majesty  has  con- 
ferred on  me,  in  appointing  to  my  administration  the  city  of 

.     As  the  choice  of  a  secretary  has  been  left  to  me,  I  need 

not  say  how  happy  I  shall  be  to  keep  my  promise  to  you. 

Indeed,  as  I  told  Lord yesterda}^  morning,  I  do  not  know 

anywhere  a  young  man  who  has  more  talent,  or  who  plays 
better  on  the  flute.  —  Adieu,  my  dear  young  friend  ;  and  be- 
lieve me,  very  truly  yours, 

ASPEDEN. 

letter   from   MADAME   DE   LA   MERONVILLE. 
(Translated.) 
You  have  done  me  wrong,  —  great  wrong.     I  loved  you,  I 
waited  on  you,  tended  you,  nursed  you,  gave  aU  up  for  you; 


THE   DISOWNED.  27 

and  you  forsook  me,  —  forsook  me  without  a  worcl.  True, 
that  you  have  been  engaged  in  a  melancholy  duty,  but,  at  least, 
you  had  time  to  write  a  line,  to  cast  a  thought,  to  one  who 
had  shown  for  you  the  love  that  I  have  done.  But  we  will 
pass  over  all  this;  I  will  not  reproach  you, — it  is  beneath, 
me.  The  vicious  upbraid,  —  the  virtuous  forgive  !  I  have,  for 
several  days,  left  your  house.  I  should  never  have  come  to  it, 
had  you  not  been  wounded,  and,  as  I  fondly  imagined,  for  my 
sake.  Keturn  when  you  will,  I  shall  no  longer  be  there  to 
persecute  and  torment  you. 

Pardon  this  letter.  I  have  said  too  much  for  myself,  —  a 
hundred  times  too  much  to  you  ;  but  I  shall  not  sin  again. 
This  intrusion  is  my  last. 

Cecile  de  la  Meronville. 

These  letters  will,  probably,  suffice  to  clear  up  that 
part  of  Clarence's  history  which  had  not  hitherto  been 
touched  upon;  they  will  show  that  Talbot's  will  (after 
several  legacies  to  his  old  servants,  his  nearest  connec- 
tions, and  two  charitable  institutions  which  he  had 
founded  and  for  some  years  supported)  had  bequeathed 
the  bulk  of  his  property  to  Clarence.  The  words  in 
which  the  bequest  was  made  were  kind  and  somewhat 
remarkable:  "To  my  relation  and  friend,  commonly 
known  by  the  name  of  Clarence  Linden,  to  whom  I  am 
bound  alike  by  blood  and  affection,"  etc.  These  ex- 
pressions, joined  to  the  magnitude  of  the  bequest,  the 
apparently  unaccountable  attachment  of  the  old  man  to 
his  heir,  and  the  mystery  which  wrapped  the  origin  of 
the  latter,  all  concurred  to  give  rise  to  an  opinion,  easily 
received,  and  soon  universally  accredited,  that  Clarence 
was  a  natural  son  of  the  deceased ;  and  so  strong  in  Eng- 
land is  the  aristocratic  aversion  to  an  unknown  lineage, 
that  this  belief,  unflattering  as  it  was,  procured  for 
Linden  a  much  higher   consideration   on  the  score  of 


28  THE   DISOWNED. 

birth  than  he  might  otherwise  have  enjoyed.  I^'urthcr- 
more  will  the  above  correspondence  testify  the  general 
eclat  of  Madame  la  Meronville's  attachment,  and  the 
construction  naturally  put  upon  it.  Xor  do  we  see 
much  left  for  us  to  explain,  with  regard  to  the  French- 
woman herself,  which  cannot  equally  well  be  gleaned, 
by  any  judicious  and  intelligent  reader,  from  the  epistle 
last  honored  by  his  perusal.  Clarence's  sense  of  gal- 
lantry did,  indeed,  smite  him  severely  for  his  negligence 
and  ill  requital  to  one  who,  whatever  her  faults  or  fol- 
lies, had  at  least  done  nothing  with  which  he  had  a 
right  to  reproach  her.  It  must,  however,  be  considered, 
in  his  defence,  that  the  fatal  event  which  had  so  lately 
occurred,  the  relapse  which  Clarence  had  suffered  in 
consequence,  and  the  melancholy  confusion  and  bustle 
in  which  the  last  week  or  ten  days  had  been  passed,  were 
quite  sufficient  to  banish  her  from  his  remembrance. 
Still  she  was  a  woman,  and  had  loved,  or  seemed  to 
love;  and  Clarence,  as  he  wrote  to  her  a  long,  kind, 
and  almost  brotherly  letter,  in  return  for  her  own,  felt 
that,  in  giving  pain  to  another,  one  often  suffers  almost 
as  much  for  avoiding  as  for  committing  a  sin. 

We  have  said  his  letter  was  kind,  —  it  was  also  frank, 
and  yet  prudent.  In  it  he  said  that  he  had  long  loved 
another,  Avhich  love  alone  could  have  rendered  him  in- 
sensible CO  her  attachment;  that  he,  nevertheless,  should 
always  recall  her  memory  with  equal  interest  and  ad- 
miration; and  then,  with  a  tact  of  flattery  which  the 
nature  of  the  correspondence  and  the  sex  of  the  person 
addressed  rendered  excusable,  he  endeavored,  as  far  as 
he  was  able,  to  sootlie  and  please  the  vanity  which  the 
candor  of  his  avowal  was  calculated  to  wound. 

When  he  had  finished  this  letter,  he  despatched  an- 
other to  Lord  Aspeden ,  claiming  a  reprieve  of  some  days 


THE   DISOWNED.  29 

before  lie  answered  the  proposal  of  the  diplomatist. 
After  these  epistolary  eftorts,  he  summoned  his  valet, 
and  told  him,  apparently  in  a  careless  tone,  to  find  out 
if  Lady  Westborough  was  still  in  town.  Then,  throw- 
ing himself  on  the  couch,  he  wrestled  with  the  grief  and 
melancholy  which  the  death  of  a  friend,  and  more  than 
a  father,  might  well  cause  in  a  mind  less  susceptible 
than  his,  and  counted  the  dull  hours  crawl  onward  till 
his  servant  returned.  "  Lady  Westborough  and  all  the 
family  had  been  gone  a  week  to  their  seat  in .  " 

"  Well,"  thought  Clarence,  "  had  he  been  alive,  I 
could  have  intrusted  my  cause  to  a  mediator;  as  it  is,  I 
will  plead,  or  rather  assert  it,  myself.  — Harrison,"  said 
he,  aloud,  "  see  that  my  black  mare  is  ready  by  sunrise 
to-morrow;  I  shall  leave  town  for  some  days." 

"  !N"ot  in  your  present  state  of  health,  sir,  surely?" 
said  Harrison,  with  the  license  of  one  who  had  been  a 
nurse. 

"  My  health  requires  it,  —  no  more  words,  my  good 
Harrison:  see  that  1  am  obeyed."  And  Harrison, 
shaking  his  head  doubtfully,   left  the  room. 

"  Rich,  independent,  free  to  aspire  to  the  heights 
which  in  England  are  only  accessible  to  those  who  join 
wealth  to  ambition,  I  have  at  least,"  said  Clarence, 
proudly,  "  no  unworthy  pretensions  even  to  the  hand  of 
Lady  Flora  Ardenne.  If  she  can  love  me  for  myself, 
if  she  can  trust  to  my  honor,  rely  on  my  love,  feel  proud 
in  my  pride,  and  aspiring  in  my  ambition,  then,  indeed, 
this  wealth  will  be  welcome  to  me,  and  the  disguised 
name,  which  has  cost  me  so  many  mortifications,  become 
grateful,  since  she  will  not  disdain  to  share  it." 


30  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

A  little  (Iruid  wight, 
Of  withered  aspect ;  but  his  eye  was  keen 
With  sweetness  mixed,  —  in  russet  brown  bedight. 

Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence. 

Thus  iioldiiig  high  discourse,  they  came  to  where 
The  cursed  carle  was  at  his  wonted  trade. 
Still  tempting  heedless  men  into  his  snare, 
In  witching  wise,  as  I  before  liave  said. 

Ibid. 

It  was  a  fine,  joyous  summer  morning  when  Clarence 
set  out,  alone,  and  on  horseback,  upon  his  enterprise  of 
love  and  adventure.  If  ther(i  be  anything  on  earth  more 
reviving  and  inspiriting  than  another,  it  is,  to  my  taste, 
a  bright  day,  a  free  horse,  a  journey  of  excitement  before 
one,  and  loneliness!  Eousseau  —  in  his  own  way,  a 
great,  though  rather  a  morbid  epicure  of  this  world's 
enjoyments  —  talks  with  rapture  of  his  pedestrian  ram- 
bles, when  in  his  first  youth.  But  what  are  your  foot- 
ploddings  to  the  joy  which  lifts  you  into  the  air  Avith 
the  bound  of  your  mettled  steed  1 

But  there  are  times  when  an  iron  and  stern  sadness 
locks,  as  it  were,  within  itself  our  capacities  of  enjoy- 
ment; and  the  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  green  freshness 
of  tlie  summer  morning,  and  tlie  glad  motion  of  the  eager 
horse,  brought  neitlier  relief  nor  change  to  the  musings 
of  the  young  adventurer. 

He  rode  on  for  several  miles  without  noticing  any- 
thing on  his  road,  and  only  now  and  then  testifying  the 
nature  of  his  thoughts,  and  his  consciousness  of  solitude 


THE   DISOWNED.  31 

by  brief  and  abrupt  exclamations  and  sentences,  wbicli 
proclaimed  the  melancholy  yet  exciting  subjects  of  his 
meditations.     During  the  heat   of  the  noon,  he  rested 

at  a  small  public-house  about miles  from  town ;  and 

resolving  to  take  his  horse  at  least  ten  miles  further  be- 
fore his  day's  journey  ceased,  he  remounted  towards  the 
evening,  and  slowly  resumed  his  way. 

He  was  now  entering  the  same  county  in  which  he 
first  made  his  appearance  in  this  history.  Although 
several  miles  from  the  spot  on  which  the  memorable 
night  with  the  gypsies  had  been  passed,  his  thoughts 
reverted  to  its  remembrance ,  and  he  sighed  as  he  recalled 
the  ardent  hopes  which  then  fed  and  animated  his  heart. 
While  thus  musing,  he  heard  the  sound  of  hoofs  behind 
him,  and  presently  came  by  a  sober-looking  man,  on  a 
rough,  strong  pony,  laden  (besides  its  master's  weight), 
with  saddle-bags  of  uncommon  size,  and  to  all  appear- 
ance substantially  and  artfully  filled. 

Clarence  looked,  and  after  a  second  survey,  recog- 
nized the  person  of  his  old  acquaintance  Mr.  Morris 
Brown. 

Not  equally  reminiscent  was  the  worshipful  itinerant, 
who,  in  the  great  variety  of  forms  and  faces  which  it  was 
his  professional  lot  to  encounter,  could  not  be  expected 
to  preserve  a  very  nice  or  distinguishing  recollection  of 
each. 

"Your  servant,  sir,  your  servant,"  said  Mr.  Brown, 
as  he  rode  his  pony  alongside  of  our  traveller.  "  Are 
you  going  as  far  as  W this  evening?  " 

"  I  hardly  know  yet,"  answered  Clarence;  "  the  length 
of  my  ride  depends  upon  my  horse  rather  than  myself. " 

"  Oh,  well,  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Brown  ;  "  but  you  will 
allow  me,  perhaps,  sir,  the  honor  of  riding  with  you  as 
far  as  you  go." 


32  THE   DISOWNED. 

"You  give  me  much  gratification  by  your  proposal, 
Mr.  Brown!  "  said  Clarence. 

The  broker  looked  in  surprise  at  his  companion.  "  So 
you  know  me,  sir?  " 

"  I  do,"  replied  Clarence.  "I  am  surprised  that  you 
have  forgotten  me  !  " 

Slowly  Mr.  Brown  gazed,  till  at  last  his  memory 
began  to  give  itself  the  rousing  shake.  "  God  bless  me, 
sir,  I  beg  you  a  tliousand  pardons:  I  now  remember 
you  perfectly,  —  Mr.  Linden,  the  nephew  of  my  old 
patroness,  Mrs.  Minden.  Dear,  dear,  how  could  I  be  so 
forgetful!  I  hope,  by  the  by,  sir,  that  the  shirts  wore 
well.  I  am  thinking  you  will  want  some  more.  I  have 
some  capital  cambric  of  curiously  fine  quality  and  tex- 
ture, from  the  wardrobe  of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove." 

"What,  Lady  Waddilove  still!"  cried  Clarence. 
"  Why,  my  good  friend,  you  will  offer  next  to  furnish 
me  with  pantaloons  from  her  ladyship's  Avardrobe." 

"  Why,  really,  sir,  I  see  you  preserve  your  fine  spirits; 
but  I  do  think  I  have  one  or  two  pair  of  plum-colored 
velvet  inexpressibles,  that  passed  into  my  possession 
•when  her  ladyship's  husband  died,  which  might,  per- 
haps, with  a  leetle  alteration,  fit  you,  and  at  all  events, 
would  be  a  very  elegant  present  from  a  gentleman  to  his 
valet." 

"Well,  Mr.  Brown,  whenever  I  or  my  valet  wear 
plum-colored  velvet  breeches,  I  will  certainly  purchase 
those  in  your  possession;  but,  to  change  the  subject,  can 
you  inform  me  what  have  become  of  my  old  host  and 
hostess,  the  Copperases,  of  Copperas  Bower?  " 

"Oh,  sir,  they  are  the  same  as  ever,  —  nice  genteel 
people  they  are  too.  Master  Adolphus  has  grown  into 
a  fine  young  gentleman,  very  nearly  as  tall  as  j/ou  and 
/  are.     His  worthy   father   preserves  his  jovial   vein, 


THE   DISOWNED.  33 

and  is  very  merry  whenever  I  call  there.  Indeed,  it 
was  but  last  week  that  he  made  an  admirable  witti- 
cism. '  Bob,'  said  he  (Tom, — you  remember  Tom,  or 
De  Warens,  as  Mrs.  Copperas  was  pleased  to  call  him, 
—  Tom  is  gone),  — '  Bob,  have  you  stopped  the  coach  1  ' 
•  Yes,  sir,'  said  Bob.  '  And  what  coach  is  it? '  asked 
Mr.  Copperas.  '  It  be  the  Swallow,  sir,'  said  the  boy. 
'The  Swallow!  oh,  very  well,'  cried  Mr.  Copperas; 
'  then,  now,  having  swallowed  in  the  roll,  I  will  e'en 
roll  in  the  Swallow ! '  —  Ha !  ha !  ha !  sir,  very  face- 
tious ,  was  it  not  ?  " 

"Very,  indeed,"  said  Clarence;  "and  so  Mr.  de 
Warens  has  gone :  how  came  that  1  " 

"  Why,  sir,  you  see  the  boy  was  always  of  a  r/a7j  turn, 
and  he  took  to  frisking  it,  as  he  called  it,  of  a  night, 
and  so  he  was  taken  up  for  thrashing  a  watchman,  and 
appeared  before  Sir  John,  the  magistrate,  the  next 
morning. " 

"Caractacus  before  Caesar!"  observed  Linden;  "and 
what  said  Ceesar  1  " 

"  Sir!  "  said  Mr.  Brown. 

"  I  mean ,  what  said  Sir  John  ?  " 

"  Oh!  he  asked  him  his  name,  and  Tom,  whose  head 
Mrs.  Copperas  (poor  good  woman!)  had  crammed  with 
pride  enough  for  fifty  foot-boys,  replied  '  De  Warens,' 
with  all  the  air  of  a  man  of  independence.  '  De  Warens !  ' 
cried  Sir  John,  amazed,  '  we  '11  have  no  De's  here:  take 
him  to  Bridewell!  '  — and  so  Mrs.  Copperas,  being  with- 
out a  foot-boy,  sent  for  me,  and  I  supplied  her  with 
Boh  !  " 

"Out  of  the  late  Lady  Waddi love's  wardrobe  tool  " 
said  Clarence. 

"Ha,  ha!  that's  Avell,  very  well,  sir.  No,  not 
exactly,  but  he  was  a  son  of  her  late  ladyship's  coach- 

VOL.  11.  3 


34  TIIK    DISOWNED. 

man.  'Mr.  Copperas  has  had  two  other  servants  of  the 
name  of  Bob  before,  but  tliis  is  the  biggest  of  all,  so  he 
humorously  calls  him  '  Triple  Bob  Major!  '  You  ob- 
Berve  that  road  to  the  right,  sir,  —  it  leads  to  the  man- 
sion of  an  old  customer  of  mine.  General  Cornelius 
St.  Leger;  many  a  good  bargain  have  I  sold  to  his  sister. 
Heaven  rest  her!  —  when  she  died,  I  lost  a  good  friend, 
though  she  was  a  little  hot  or  so,  to  be  sure.  But  she 
had  a  relation,  a  young  lady;  such  a  lovely,  noble-look- 
ing creature,  —  it  did  one's  heart,  ay,  and  one's  eyes 
also,  good  to  look  at  her;  and  she's  gone  too,  —  well, 
well,  one  loses  one's  customers  sadly;  it  makes  me  feel 
old  and  comfortless  to  tliink  of  it.  Now,  yonder,  as  far 
as  you  can  see  among  those  distant  woods,  lived  another 
friend  of  mine,  to  whom  I  offered  to  make  some  very 
valuable  presents  upon  his  marriage  with  the  young  lady 
I  spoke  of  just  now,  but,  poor  gentleman,  he  had  not 
time  to  accept  them ;  he  lost  his  projierty  by  a  lawsuit, 
a  few  months  after  he  was  married,  and  a  very  different 
person  now  has  IMordaunt  Court." 

"  Mordaunt  Court!"  cried  Clarence;  "do  you  mean 
to  say  that  Mr,  Mordaunt  has  lost  that  property  ? " 

"  Why,  sir,  one  Mr.  JMordaunt  has  lost  it,  and  another 
has  gained  it;  but  the  real  Mr.  Mordaunt  has  not  an 
acre  in  this  county,  or  elsewhere,  I  fear,  poor  gentle- 
man. He  is  universally  regretted;  for  he  was  very  good 
and  very  generous,  though  they  say  he  was  also  mighty 
proud  and  reserved ;  but,  for  my  part,  I  never  perceived 
it.  If  one  is  not  proud  one's  self,  Mr.  Linden,  one  is 
very  little  ai)t  to  be  hurt  by  pride  in  other  people." 

"And  where  is  Mr.  Algernon  Mordaunt?"  asked 
Clarence,  as  he  recalled  his  interview  with  tliat  person, 
and  the  interest  with  which  Algernon  then  inspired 
him. 


THE   DISOWNED.  35 

"  That,  sir,  is  more  than  any  of  us  can  say.  He  has 
disappeared  altogether.  Some  declare  that  he  has  gone 
abroad,  others  that  he  is  living  in  Wales  in  the  greatest 
poverty.  However,  wherever  he  is,  I  am  sure  that  he 
cannot  be  rich;  for  the  lawsuit  quite  ruined  him,  and 
the  young  lady  he  married  had  not  a  farthing." 

"  Poor  Mordaunt,"  said  Clarence,  musingly. 

"  I  think,  sir,  that  the  squire  would  not  be  best  pleased 
if  he  heard  you  pity  him.  I  don't  know  why,  but  he 
certainly  looked,  walked,  and  moved  like  one  whom 
you  felt  it  very  hard  to  pity.  But  I  am  thinking  that 
it  is  a  great  shame  that  the  general  should  not  do  any- 
thing for  Mr.  Mordaunt 's  wife,  for  she  was  his  own 
flesh  and  blood ;  and  I  am  sure  he  had  no  cause  to  be 
angry  at  her  marrying  a  gentleman  of  such  old  family  as 
Mr.  Mordaunt.  I  am  a  great  stickler  for  birth,  sir, — ■ 
I  learned  that  from  the  late  Lady  W.  '  Brown,'  she 
said,  and  I  shall  never  forget  her  ladyship's  air  when 
she  did  say  it,  — '  BroAvn,  respect  your  superiors,  and 
never  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  republicans  and 
atheists!  '  " 

"And  why,"  said  Clarence,  who  was  much  interested 
in  Mordaunt' s  fate,  "  did  General  St.  Leger  withhold 
his  consent  1  " 

"  That  we  don't  exactly  know,  sir;  but  some  say  that 
Mr.  Mordaunt  was  very  high  and  proud  with  the  general , 
and  the  general  was  to  the  full  as  fond  of  his  purse  as 
Mr.  Mordaunt  could  be  of  his  pedigree,  —  and  so,  I 
suppose,  one  pride  clashed  against  the  other,  and  made 
a  quarrel  between  them." 

"Would  not  the  general,  then,  relent  after  the 
marriage  1  " 

"Oh!  no,  sir, — for  it  was  a  runaway  affair.  Miss 
Diana  St.  Leger,  his  sister,  was  as  hot  as  ginger  upon 


36  THK    DISOWNED. 

it,  and  fretted  and  worried  the  poor  general  —  •\vho  ;vag 
never  of  the  raihlcst  —  ahout  the  match,  till  at  last  he 
forbade  the  poor  young  lady's  very  name  to  be  mentioned. 
And  vphen  Miss  Diana  died  about  two  years  ago,  he 
suddenly  introduced  a  tawny  sort  of  cretur  whom  they 
call  a  mulatto  or  creole,  or  some  such  thing,  into  the 
house;  and  it  seems  that  he  has  had  several  children  by 
her,  whom  he  never  durst  own  during  Miss  l^iana's 
life,  but  whom  he  now  declares  to  be  his  heirs.  "Well, 
they  rule  him  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  suck  him  as 
dry  as  an  orange.  They  are  a  bad,  griping  set,  all  of 
them;  and,  I  am  sure,  I  don't  say  so  from  any  selfish 
feeling,  ]Mr.  Linden,  though  they  have  forbid  me  the 
house,  and  called  me,  to  my  very  face,  an  old  cheating 
Jew.  Think  of  that,  sir!  —  I  whom  the  late  Lady 
W. ,  in  her  exceeding  friendship,  used  to  call  'honest 
Brown,'  —  I  whom  your  Avorthy  —  " 

"  And  Avho,"  uncourteously  interrupted  Clarence, 
"  has  Mordaunt  Court  now  1  " 

"Why,  a  distant  relation  of  the  last  squire's,  an 
elderly  gQjitleman  who  calls  himself  Mr.  Vavasour 
]\Iordaunt.  I  am  going  tliere  to-morrow  morning,  for 
I  still  keep  up  a  connection  with  the  family.  Indeed, 
the  old  gentleman  bought  a  lovely  little  ape  of  me, 
which  I  did  intend  as  a  present  to  the  late  (as  I  may 
call  him)  Mr.  Mordaunt;  so,  though  I  will  not  say  I 
exactly  like  him,  —  he  is  a  hard  hand  at  a  bargain,  —  yet 
at  least  I  will  not  deny  him  his  due." 

"  What  sort  of  person  is  he  1  Wliat  character  does  he 
bear?"  asked  Clarence. 

"  T  really  find  it  hard  to  answer  that  question,"  said 
the  gossiping  Mr.  Brown.  "  Tn  great  things  he  is  very 
lavish  and  ostentatious,  but  in  small  things  he  is  very 
penurious  and  saving,  and  miser-like,  —  and  all  for  one 


THE   DISOWNED.  37 

son,  "who  is  deformed  and  very  sickly.  He  seems  to 
doat  on  that  boy ;  and  now  I  have  got  two  or  three  littlo 
2:)resents  in  tliese  bags  for  Mr.  Henry.  Heaven  forgive 
me,  but  when  I  look  at  the  poor  creature,  with  his  face 
all  drawn  up,  and  his  sour,  ill-tempered  voice,  and  his 
limbs  crippled,  I  almost  think  it  would  be  better  if  he 
were  in  his  grave,  and  the  rightful  j\ir.  IMordaunt,  who 
would  then  be  the  next  of  kin,  in  his  place." 

"  So  then,  there  is  only  this  unhappy  cripple  between 
Mr.  Mordaunt  and  the  property  'l  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Exactly  so,  sir.     But  will  you  let  me  ask  where  you 

shall  put  up  at  W ?     I  will  wait  upon  you,  if  you 

will  give  me  leave,  with  some  very  curious  and  valualde 
articles,  highly  desirable  either  for  yourself,  or  for  little 
presents  to  your  friends. " 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Clarence,  "  I  shall  make  no  stay 

at  W ,  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  in  town  next 

week.     Favor  me,  meanwhile,  by  accepting  this  trifle." 

"Nay,  nay,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  pocketing  the 
money ;  "  I  really  cannot  accept  this :  anything  in  the 
way  of  exchange,  —  a  ring,  or  a  seal,  or  —  " 

"No,  no,  not  at  present,"  said  Clarence;  "the  night 
is  coming  on,  and  I  shall  make  the  best  of  my  way. 
Good-by,  Mr.  Brown;  "  and  Clarence  trotted  off;  but  he 
had  scarce  got  sixty  yards  before  he  heard  the  itinerant 
merchant  cry  out,  "  Mr.  Linden,  Mr.  Linden !  "  and, 
looking  back,  he  beheld  the  honest  Brown  putting  his 
shaggy  pony  at  full  speed,  in  order  to  overtake  him,  so 
he  pulled  up. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Brown,  what  do  you  want?  " 

"Why,  you  see,  sir,  you  gave  me  no  exact  answer 
about  the  plum-colored  velvet  inexpressibles,"  said  Mr. 
Brown. 


38  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

Are  we  contemned  !  —  The  Double  Marriage. 

It  was  dusk  M'lien  Clarence  arrived  at  the  very  same 
inn  at  wliicli,  more  tlian  five  years  ago,  he  had  assumed 
his  present  name.  As  he  recalled  the  note  addressed  to 
liim,  and  the  sum  (his  whole  fortune)  which  it  contained, 
he  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  change  his  lot  had  since 
then  undergone;  but  the  smile  soon  withered  when  he 
thought  of  the  kind  and  paternal  hand  from  which  that 
change  had  proceeded,  and  knew  that  his  gratitude  was 
no  longer  availing,  and  that  tliat  hand,  in  pouring  its 
last  favors  upon  him,  had  become  cold.  He  was  ushered 
into  No.  Four,  and  left  to  his  meditations  till  bed-time. 
The  next  day  he  recommenced  his  journey.  West- 
borough  Park  was,  though  in  another  county,  within  a 
short  ride  of  W ;  but  as  he  approached  it,  the  char- 
acter of  the  scenery  became  essentially  changed.  Bare, 
bold,  and  meagre,  the  features  of  the  country  bore  some- 
what of  a  Scottish  character.  On  the  riglit  side  of  the 
road  was  a  precipitous  and  perilous  descent,  and  some 
workmen  were  placing  posts  along  a  path  for  foot- 
passengers  on  that  side  nearest  the  carriage-road,  prob- 
ably with  a  view  to  preserve  unwary  coachmen  or  eques- 
trians from  the  dangerous  vicinity  to  the  descent,  which 
a  dark  niglit  might  cause  them  to  incur.  As  Clarence 
looked  idly  on  the  workmen,  and  painfully  on  the 
crumbling  and  fearful  descent  I  have  described,  he  little 
tliought  that  that  spot,  would,  a  few  years  after,  become 
the  scene  of  a  catastrophe  affecting  in  the  most  powerful 


THE   DISOWNED.  39 

degree  the  interests  of  his  future  life.  Our  young  trav- 
eller put  up  his  horse  at  a  small  inn,  bearing  the  West- 
borough  arms,  and  situated  at  a  short  distance  from  the 
park  gates.  Now  that  he  was  so  near  his  mistress,  — 
now  that  less  than  an  hour,  nay,  than  the  fourth  part  of 
an  hour,  might  place  him  before  her,  and  decide  his  fate, 
his  heart,  which  had  hitherto  sustained  him,  grew  faint, 
and  presented  first  fear,  then  anxiety,  and  at  last,  de- 
spondency to  his  imagination  and  forebodings. 

"  At  all  events,"  said  he,  "  I  will  see  her  alone  before 
I  Avill  confer  with  her  artful  and  proud  mother,  or  her 
cipher  of  a  father.  I  will  then  tell  her  all  my  history, 
and  open  to  her  all  my  secrets:  I  will  only  conceal  from 
her  my  present  fortunes,  for  even  if  rumor  should  have 
informed  her  of  them,  it  will  be  easy  to  give  the  report 
no  sanction ;  I  have  a  right  to  that  trial.  When  she  is 
convinced  that,  at  least,  neither  my  birth  nor  character 
can  disgrace  her,  I  shall  see  if  her  love  can  enable  her 
to  overlook  my  supposed  poverty,  and  to  share  my 
imcertain  lot.  If  so,  there  will  be  some  triumph  in 
undeceiving  her  error  and  rewarding  her  generosity ; 
if  not,  I  shall  be  saved  from  involving  my  happiness 
with  that  of  one  who  looks  only  to  my  worldly  posses- 
sions. I  owe  it  to  her,  it  is  true,  to  show  her  that  I 
am  no  lowborn  pretender;  but  I  owe  it  also  to  myself  to 
ascertain  if  my  own  individual  qualities  are  sufficient 
to  gain  her  hand. " 

Fraught  with  these  ideas,  which  were  natural  enough  to 
a  man  whose  peculiar  circumstances  were  well  calculated 
to  make  him  feel  rather  soured  and  suspicious,  and 
whose  pride  had  been  severely  wounded  by  the  contempt 
witli  which  his  letter  had  been  treated,  —  Clarence 
walked  into  the  park,  and,  hovering  around  the  house, 
watched  and  waited  that  opportunity  of  addressing  Lady 


40  THE   DISOWNED. 

Flora  which  he  trustod  her  hahits  of  walking  would 
afford  him;  but  hours  rolled  away,  the  evening  set  in, 
and  Lady  Flora  had  not  once  quitted  the  house. 

More  disappointed  and  sick  at  heart  than  he  liked  to 
confess,  Clarence  returned  to  his  inn,  took  his  solitary 
meal,  and,  strolling  once  more  into  the  park,  watched 
beneath  the  windows  till  midnight,  endeavoring  to  guess' 
which  were  the  casements  of  her  apartments,  and  feeling 
his  heart  beat  high  at  every  light  which  flashed  forth 
and  disappeared,  and  every  form  which  flitted  across 
the  windows  of  the  great  staircase.  Little  did  Lady 
Flora,  as  she  sat  in  her  room  alone,  and  in  tears  mused 
over  Clarence's  fancied  worthlessness  and  infidelity,  and 
told  her  heart  again  and  again  that  she  loved  no  more, 
—  little  did  she  know  whose  eye  kept  vigils  without,  or 
whose  feet  brushed  away  the  rank  dews  beneath  her 
windows,  or  whose  thoughts,  though  not  altogether 
unmingled  Avith  reproach,  were  riveted  with  all  the 
ardor  of  a  young  and  first  love  upon  her. 

It  was  unfortunate  for  Linden  that  he  had  no  oppor- 
tunity of  personally  pleading  his  suit;  his  altered  form 
and  faded  countenance  would  at  least  have  insured  a  hear- 
ing, and  an  interest  for  his  honest  though  somewhat 
haughty  sincerity;  but  though  that  day  and  the  next 
and  the  next  were  passed  in  the  most  anxious  and  un- 
remitting vigilance,  Clarence  only  once  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Lady  Flora,  and  then  she  was  one  amidst  a  large  party ; 
and  Clarence,  fearful  of  a  premature  and  untimely  dis- 
covery, was  forced  to  retire  into  the  thicknesses  of  the 
park,  and  lose  the  solitary  reward  of  his  watches  almost 
as  soon  as  he  had  won  it. 

Wearied  and  racked  by  his  suspense,  and  despairing 
of  obtaining  any  favorable  opportunity  for  an  interview, 
without  such  a  request,  Clarence  at  last  resolved  to  write 


THE   DISOWNED.  41 

to  Lady  Flora,  entreating  her  assent  to  a  meeting,  in  which 
he  pledged  himself  to  clear  up  all  that  had  hitherto 
seemed  doubtful  in  his  conduct  or  mysterious  in  his 
character.  Though  respectful,  urgent,  and  bearing  the 
impress  of  truth  and  feeling,  the  tone  of  the  letter  was 
certainly  that  of  a  man  who  conceived  he  had  a  right  to 
a  little  resentment  for  the  past,  and  a  little  confidence  for 
the  future.  It  was  what  might  well  be  written  by  one 
who  imagined  his  affection  had  once  been  returned,  but 
would  as  certainly  have  been  deemed  very  presumptuous 
by  a  lady  who  thought  that  the  affection  itself  was  a 
liberty. 

Having  penned  this  epistle,  the  next  care  was  how  to 
convey  it.  After  much  deliberation,  it  was  at  last  com- 
mitted to  the  care  of  a  little  girl,  the  daughter  of  the 
lodge-keeper,  whom  Lady  Flora  thrice  a  week  personally 
instructed  in  the  mysteries  of  spelling,  reading,  and 
calligraphy.  With  many  injunctions  to  deliver  the  letter 
only  to  the  hands  of  the  beautiful  teacher,  Clarence 
trusted  his  despatches  to  the  little  scholar,  and  with  a 
trembling  frame  and  wistful  eye,  watched  Susan  take  her 
road,  with  her  green  satchel  and  her  shining  cheeks,  to 
the  great  house. 

One  hour,  two  hours,  three  hours,  passed,  and  the 
messenger  had  not  returned.  Restless  and  impatient, 
Clarence  walked  back  to  his  inn,  and  had  not  been  there 
many  minutes  before  a  servant,  in  the  Westborough 
livery,  appeared  at  the  door  of  the  humble  hostelry,  and 
left  the  following  letter  for  his  perusal  and  gratifi- 
cation :  — 

Sir,  —  The  letter  intended  for  my  daughter  has  just  been 
given  to  me  by  Lady  Westborough.  I  know  not  what  gave 
rise  to  the  language,  or  the  very  extraordinary  request  for  a 
clandestine  meeting,  which  you  have  thought  proper  to  address 


42  THE   DISOWNED. 

to  Lady  Flora  Ardenne  ;  but  you  will  allow  me  to  observe, 
that  if  you  intend  to  confer  upon  my  daughter  the  honor  of  a 
matrimonial  proposal,  she  fully  concurs  with  me  and  her 
mother  in  the  negative,  which  I  feel  necessitated  to  put  upon 
your  obliging  otfer. 

I  need  not  add  that  all  correspondence  with  my  daughter 
must  close  here.  I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir,  your  very  obe- 
dient servant, 

Westborough. 
Westborough  T'ark. 

To  Clarence  Linden,  Esq. 

Had  Clarence's  blood  been  turned  to  fire,  bis  veins 
could  not  have  swelled  and  burned  with  a  fiercer  heat 
than  they  did,  as  he  read  the  above  letter,  —  a  master- 
piece, perhaps,  in  the  line  of  what  may  be  termed  the 
"  d — d  civil  "  of  epistolary  favors. 

"  Insufferable  arrogance !  "  he  muttered  within  his 
teeth;  "I  will  live  to  repay  it.  Perfidious,  unfeeling 
woman,  —  what  an  escape  I  have  had  of  her!  Now, 
now,  I  am  on  the  world  and  alone,  thank  Heaven.  I 
will  accept  Aspeden's  offer,  and  leave  this  country; 
when  I  return,  it  shall  not  be  as  a  humble  suitor  to 
Lady  Flora  Ardenne.  Pish!  how  the  name  sickens  me; 
but  come,  I  have  a  father, — at  least  a  nominal  one. 
He  is  old  and  weak,  and  may  die  before  I  return.  I 
will  see  him  once  more ;  and  then,  hey  for  Italy  !  Oh  ! 
I  am  so  happy,  —  so  happy  at  my  freedom  and  escape. 
What,  ho  !  —  waiter  !  —  my  horse  instantly  !  " 


THE  DISOWNED.  43 


CHAPTER   LIII. 

Lucr.  — What  has  thy  father  done  ? 
Beat.  —  What  have  I  doue ! 
Am  I  not  innocent  ? 

The  Cenci. 

The  twilight  was  darkening  slowly  over  a  room  of  noble 
dimensions  and  costly  fashion.  Although  it  was  the 
height  of  summer,  a  low  fire  burned  in  the  grate;  and 
stretching  his  hands  over  the  feeble  flame,  an  old  man,  of 
about  sixty,  sat  in  an  arm-chair,  curiously  carved  with 
armorial  bearings.  The  dim  yet  fitful  flame  cast  its 
upward  light  upon  a  countenance,  stern,  haughty,  and 
repellent,  where  the  passions  of  youth  and  manhood  had 
dug  themselves  graves  in  many  an  iron  line  and  deep 
furrow ;  the  forehead,  though  high  was  narrow  and  com- 
pressed; the  brows  sullenly  overhung  the  eyes,  and 
the  nose,  which  was  singularly  prominent  and  decided, 
age  had  sharpened,  and  brought  out,  as  it  were,  till  it 
gave  a  stubborn  and  very  forbidding  expression  to  the 
more  sunken  features  over  which  it  rose  with  exaggerated 
dignity.  Two  bottles  of  wine,  a  few  dried  preserves, 
and  a  water-glass,  richly  chased,  and  ornamented  with 
gold,  showed  that  the  inmate  of  the  apartment  had  passed 
the  hour  of  the  principal  repast ;  and  his  loneliness  at  the 
time  usually  social,  seemed  to  indicate  that  few  olive- 
branches  were  accustomed  to  overshadow  his  table. 

The  windows  of  the  dining-room  reached  to  the 
ground,  and  without,  the  closing  light  just  enabled  one 
to  see  a  thick  copse  of  wood,  which,  at  a  very  brief  in- 


44  THE    IJISOWNED. 

terval  of  turf,  darkened  immediately  opposite  tlie  house. 
"While  the  old  man  was  thus  bending  over  the  fire  and 
conning  his  evening  contemplations,  a  figure  stole  from 
the  copse  I  have  mentioned,  and  approaching  the  Avin- 
dow,  looked  pryingly  into  the  apartment;  then  with  a 
noiseless  hand  it  opened  the  spring  of  the  casement, 
wliich  was  framed  on  a  peculiar  and  old-fashioned  con- 
struction that  required  a  practised  and  familiar  touch, 
entered  the  apartment,  and  crept  on  silent  and  unper- 
ceived  by  the  inhabitant  of  the  room,  till  it  paused  and 
stood  motionless,  with  folded  arms,  scarce  three  steps 
behind  the  high  back  of  the  old  man's  chair. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  latter  moved  from  his  position 
and  slowly  rose ;  the  abruptness  with  which  he  turned, 
brought  the  dark  figure  of  the  intruder  full  and  suddenly 
before  him:  he  started  back,  and  cried  in  an  alarmed 
tone,  "  Who  is  there  1  " 

The  stranger  made  no  reply. 

The  old  man,  in  a  voice  in  which  anger  and  pride 
mingled  with  fear,  repeated  the  question.  The  figure 
advanced,  dropped  the  cloak  in  which  it  was  Avrapped, 
and  presenting  the  features  of  Clarence  Linden,  said, 
in  a  low  but  clear  tone ,  — 

"  Your  son. '' 

The  old  man  dropped  his  hold  of  the  bell-rope,  which 
he  had  just  before  seized,  and  leaned  as  if  for  support 
against  the  oak  wainscot ;  Clarence  ap])roached. 

"Yes!"  said  he,  mournfully,  "your  unfortunate, 
your  offending,  but  your  guiltless  son.  More  than  five 
years  I  have  been  banished  from  your  house  ;  I  have  been 
thrown,  while  yet  a  boy,  without  friends,  without  guid- 
ance, without  name,  upon  the  wide  world,  and  to  the 
mercy  of  chance.  1  come  now  to  you  as  a  man,  claiming 
no  assistance  and  uttering  no  reproach,  but  to  tell  you 


THE   DISOWNED.  45 

that  him  whom  an  earthly  father  rejected,  God  has 
preserved;  that  without  one  unworthy  or  debasing  act, 
I  have  won  for  myself  the  friends  who  support,  and  the 
Avealth  which  dignifies  life,  since  it  renders  it  indepen- 
dent. Through  all  the  disadvantages  I  have  struggled 
against,  I  have  preserved  unimpaired  my  honor,  and 
unsullied  my  conscience;  you  have  disowned,  but  you 
might  have  claimed  me  without  shame.  Father,  these 
hands  are  clean!  " 

A  strong  and  evident  emotion  shook  the  old  man's 
frame.  He  raised  himself  to  his  full  height,  which  was 
still  tall  and  commanding,  and  in  a  voice,  the  natural 
harshness  of  which,  was  rendered  yet  more  repellent  by 
passion,  replied,  "  Boy  !  your  presumption  is  insufferable. 
What  to  me  is  your  wretched  fate  1  Go,  go,  go  to  your 
miserable  mother ;  find  her  out,  —  claim  kindred  there  ; 
live  together,  toil  together,  rot  togetlier;  but  come  not 
to  me  !  —  disgrace  to  my  house,  ask  not  admittance  to  my 
afiections ;  the  law  may  give  you  my  name,  but  sooner 
would  I  be  torn  piecemeal  than  own  your  right  to  it. 
If  you  want  money,  name  the  sum,  take  it;  cut  u.p  my 
fortune  to  shreds,  seize  my  property,  revel  on  it,  —  but 
come  not  hej^e.  This  house  is  sacred;  pollute  it  not  I 
I  disown  you ;  I  discard  you ;  I  —  ay ,  I  detest  —  I  loathe 
you!" 

And  with  these  words,  which  came  forth  as  if  heaved 
from  the  inmost  heart  of  the  speaker,  who  shook  with 
the  fury  he  endeavored  to  stifle,  he  fell  back  into  his 
chair,  and  fixed  his  eyes,  which  glared  fearfully  through 
the  increasing  darkness,  upon  Linden,  who  stood  high, 
erect,  and  sorrowfully  before  him. 

"Alas,  my  lord!"  said  Clarence,  with  mournful 
bitterness,  "  have  not  the  years  which  have  seared  your 
form  and  whitened  your  locks  brought  some  meekness 


46  THE    DISOWNED. 

to  your  rancor,  some  mercy  to  your  injustice,  for  one 
whose  only  crime  against  you  seems  to  have  been  liis 
birth.  But  1  said  I  came  not  to  reproach,  —  nor  do  I. 
Many  a  bitter  hour,  many  a  pang  of  shame  and  mortili- 
cation  and  misery,  which  have  made  scars  in  my  heart 
that  will  never  wear  away,  my  wrongs  have  cost  me,  — 
Lilt  let  them  pass.  Let  them  not  swell  your  future  and 
last  account  whenever  it  be  required.  I  am  about  to 
leave  this  country,  with  a  heavy  and  foreboding  heart; 
we  may  never  meet  again  on  earth.  I  have  no  longer  an)' 
wish,  any  chance  of  resuming  the  name  you  have  de- 
prived me  of.  I  shall  never  thrust  myself  on  your  rela- 
tionship, or  cross  your  view.  Lavish  your  wealth  upon 
liim  whom  you  have  placed  so  immeasurably  above  me 
in  your  affections.  But  I  have  not  deserved  your  curse, 
father;  give  me  your  blessing,  and  let  me  depart  in 
peace." 

"  Peace  !  and  what  peace  have  I  had,  —  what  respite 
from  gnawing  shame,  the  foulness  and  leprosy  of  humili- 
ation and  reproach,  since  —  since —  But  this  is  not 
your  fault,  you  say:  no,  no,  —  it  is  another's;  and  you 
are  only  the  mark  of  my  stigma,  my  disgrace,  not  its 
perpetrator.  Ha!  a  nice  distinction,  truly.  My  bless- 
ing, you  say  !     Come,  kneel;  kneel,  boy,  and  have  it!  " 

Clarence  approached,  and  stood  bending  and  bare- 
headed before  his  father,  but  he  knelt  not. 

"Why  do  you  not  kneel?  "  cried  the  old  man,  vehe- 
mently. 

"  It  is  the  attitude  of  the  injurer,  not  of  the  injured  !  " 
said  Clarence,  firmly. 

"  Injured  !  —  insolent  reprobate,  —  is  it  not  I  who  am 
injured  ?  Do  you  not  read  it  in  my  brow, —  here,  here  1  " 
and  the  old  man  struck  his  clenched  hand  violently 
against   his  temples.     "Was  I  not  injured?"  he  con- 


THE  DISOWNED.  47 

tinned,  sinking  his  voice  into  a  key  unnaturally  low; 
"  did  I  not  trust  implicitly ;  did  I  not  give  up  my  heart 
without  suspicion ;  was  I  not  duped  deliciously ;  was  I 
not  kind  enough,  blind  enough,  fool  enough;  and  was  I 
not  betrayed,  —  damnably,  filthily  betrayed?  But  that 
was  no  injury.  Was  not  my  old  age  turned,  a  sapless 
tree,  a  poisoned  spring ;  were  not  my  days  made  a  curse 
to  me,  and  my  nights  a  torture;  was  I  not,  am  I  not, 
a  mock  and  a  by-word,  and  a  miserable,  impotent, 
unavenged  old  man?  Injured!  But  this  is  no  injury  ! 
Boy,  boy,  what  are  your  wrongs  to  mine  ?  " 

"Father  I  "  cried  Clarence,  deprecatingly,  "  I  am  not 
the  cause  of  your  wrongs;  is  it  just  that  the  innocent 
should  suffer  for  the  guilty  ?  " 

"  Speak  not  in  that  voice  !  "  cried  the  old  man  — 
"  that  voice  !  —  fie,  fie  on  it  !  Hence  !  away  !  —  away, 
boy  I  —  why  tarry  you?  My  son,  and  have  that  voice? 
!Pooh,  you  are  not  my  son.     Ha,  ha  !  —  my  son!  " 

"What  am  I,  then?  "  said  Clarence,  soothingly;  for 
he  was  shocked  and  grieved,  rather  than  irritated,  by  a 
wrath  which  partook  so  strongly  of  insanity. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  cried  the  father,  —  "  I  will  tell  you 
what  you  are :  you  are  my  curse  !  " 

"  Farewell,"  said  Clarence,  much  agitated,  and  retiring 
to  the  window  by  which  he  had  entered ;  "  may  your 
heart  never  smite  you  for  your  cruelty  !  Farewell !  —  may 
the  blessing  you  have  withheld  from  me  be  with  you !  " 

"  Stop !  —  stay  !  "  cried  the  father ;  for  his  fury  was 
checked  for  one  moment,  and  his  nature,  fierce  as  it 
was,  relented;  but  Clarence  was  already  gone,  and  the 
miserable  old  man  was  left  alone  to  darkness  and  soli- 
tude and  the  passions  which  can  make  a  hell  of  the 
human  heart ! 


48  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

Sed  qiuB  pra-clarsi,  ct  prospera  taiiti, 

Ut  rebus  la;tis  par  sit  nieusura  malorum.^ 

Juvenal. 

We  are  now  transported  to  a  father  and  a  son  of  a  very 
different  stamp. 

It  was  about  the  hour  of  one,  p.m.,  Avhen  the  door  of 
Mr,  Vavasour  Mordaunt's  study  was  thrown  open,  and 
the  servant  announced  Mr.  Brown. 

"  Your  servant,  sir,  —  your  servant,  Mr.  Henry,"  said 
the  itinerant,  bowing  low  to  the  two  gentlemen  thus 
addressed.  The  former,  Mr.  Vavasour  Mordaunt,  might 
be  about  the  same  age  as  Linden's  father.  A  shrewd, 
sensible,  ambitious  man  of  the  world,  he  had  made  his 
way  from  the  state  of  a  younger  brother,  with  no  fortune 
and  very  little  interest,  to  considerable  wealth,  besides 
the  property  he  had  acquired  by  law,  and  to  a  degree 
of  consideration  for  general  influence  and  personal  abil- 
ity, which,  considering  he  had  no  official  or  parliamen- 
tary rank,  very  few  of  his  equals  enjoyed.  Persevering, 
steady,  crafty,  and  possessing  to  an  eminent  degree  that 
happy  art  of  "  eantlnr/,"  which  opens  the  readiest  way  to 
character  and  consequence,  the  rise  and  reputation  of  Mr. 
Vavasour  Mordaunt  appeared  less  to  be  wondered  at  than 
envied;  yet,  even  envy  was  only  for  those  who  could 
not  look  beyond  the  surface  of  things.  He  was  at  heart 
an  anxious  and  unhappy  man.     The  evil  we  do  in  the 

1  But  what  excellence  or  prosperity  so  great  that  there  should 
be  an  equal  measure  of  evils  for  our  joys. 


THE    DISOWNED.  49 

world  is  often  paid  back  in  the  bosom  of  home.  jMr. 
Vavasour  Mordaunt  was,  like  Crauford,  what  might  be 
termed  a  mistaken  utilitarian:  he  had  lived  utterly  and 
invariably  for  self ;  but  instead  of  uniting  self-interest 
with  the  interest  of  others,  he  considered  them  as  per- 
fectly incompatible  ends.  But  character  was  among  the 
greatest  of  all  objects  to  him;  so  that,  though  he  had 
rarely  deviated  into  what  might  fairly  be  termed  a 
virtue,  he  had  never  transgressed  what  might  rigidly  be 
called  a  propriety.  He  had  not  the  aptitude,  the  wit, 
the  moral  audacity  of  Crauford;  he  could  not  have  in- 
dulged in  one  offence  with  impunity,  by  a  mingled 
courage  and  hypocrisy  in  veiling  others:  he  was  the 
slave  of  the  forms  which  Crauford  subjugated  to  himself. 
He  was  only  so  far  resembling  Crauford,  as  one  man  of 
the  world  resembles  another  in  selfishness  and  dissimu- 
lation: he  could  be  dishonest,  not  villanous,  much  less 
a  villain  upon  system.  He  was  a  canter,  Crauford  a 
hypocrite:  his  uttered  opinions  were,  like  Crauford's, 
differing  from  his  conduct;  but  he  believed  the  truth  of 
the  former  even  while  sinning  in  the  latter;  he  canted 
so  sincerely,  that  the  tears  came  in  his  eyes  when  he 
spoke.  Never  was  there  a  man  more  exemplary  in 
words:  people  who  departed  from  him  went  away  im- 
pressed with  the  idea  of  an  excess  of  honor,  —  a  plethora 
of  conscience.  "  It  was  almost  a  pity,"  said  they,  "  that 
Mr.  Vavasour  was  so  romantic;"  and  thereupon  they 
named  him  as  executor  to  their  wills  and  guardian  to 
their  sons.  Kone  but  he  could,  in  carrying  the  law- 
suit against  Mordaunt,  have  lost  nothing  in  reputation 
by  success.  But  there  was  something  so  specious,  so 
ostensibly  fair  in  his  manner  and  words,  while  he  was 
ruining  Mordaunt,  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  suppose 
he  was  actuated  by  the  purest  motives,  the  most  holy 

VOL.  II.  —  4 


50  THE  DISOWN  i:d. 

desire  for  justice,  —  not  for  himself,  he  said,  for  he  was 
old,  and  already  rich  enough,  but  for  his  son  !  From 
that  son  came  the  punishment  of  all  his  offences,  —  the 
black  drop  at  the  bottom  of  a  bowl,  seemingly  so  spark- 
ling. To  him,  as  the  father  grew  old,  and  desirous  of 
quiet.  Vavasour  had  transferred  all  his  selfishness,  as  if 
to  a  securer  and  more  durable  firm.  The  child,  when 
young,  had  been  singularly  handsome  and  intelligent; 
and  Vavasour,  as  he  toiled  and  toiled  at  his  ingenious 
and  graceful  cheateries,  pleased  himself  with  anticipating 
the  importance  and  advantages  the  heir  to  his  labors 
would  enjoy.  For  that  son  he  certainly  had  persevered 
more  arduously  than  otherwise  he  might  have  done  in  the 
lawsuit,  of  the  justice  of  which  he  better  satisfied  the 
world  than  his  own  breast ;  for  that  son  he  rejoiced  as 
he  looked  around  the  stately  halls  and  noble  domain 
from  which  the  rightful  possessor  had  been  driven ;  for 
that  son  he  extended  economy  into  penuriousness,  and 
hope  into  anxiety;  and,  too  old  to  expect  much  more 
from  the  world  himself,  for  that  son  he  anticipated,  with 
a  wearing  and  feverish  fancy,  whatever  wealth  could  pur- 
chase, beauty  win,  or  intellect  command. 

But  as  if,  like  the  Castle  of  Otranto,  there  was  some- 
thing in  Mordaunt  Court  which  contained  a  penalty  and 
a  doom  for  the  usurper :  no  sooner  had  Vavasour  possessed 
himself  of  his  kinsman's  estate,  than  the  prosperity  of 
his  life  dried  and  withered  away,  like  Jonah's  gourd,  in 
a  single  night.  His  son,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  fell 
from  a  scaffold,  on  which  the  workmen  were  making 
pome  extensive  alterations  in  the  old  house,  and  became 
a  cripple  and  a  valetudinarian  for  life.  But  still  Vava- 
sour, always  of  a  sanguine  temperament,  cherished  a  hope 
that  surgical  assistance  might  restore  him:  from  place  to 
place,  from  professor  to  professor,  from  quack  to  quack, 


THE   DISOWNED.  51 

he  carried  the  unhappy  boy,  and  as  each  remedy  failed, 
he  was  only  the  more  impatient  to  devise  a  new  one. 
But  as  it  was  the  mind  as  well  as  person  of  his  son  in 
which  the  father  had  stored  up  his  ambition,  so,  in 
despite  of  this  fearful  accident,  and  the  wretched  health 
by  which  it  was  followed.  Vavasour  never  suffered  his 
son  to  rest  from  the  tasks  and  tuitions  and  lectures  of 
the  various  masters  by  whom  he  was  surrounded.  The 
poor  boy,  it  is  true,  deprived  of  physical  exertion,  and 
naturally  of  a  serious  disposition,  required  very  little 
urging  to  second  his  father's  wishes  for  his  mental  im- 
provement; and  as  the  tutors  were  all  of  the  orthodox 
university  calibre,  who  imagine  that  there  is  no  knowl- 
edge (but  vanity)  in  any  other  works  than  those  in  which 
their  own  education  has  consisted,  so  Henry  Vavasour 
became  at  once  the  victor  and  victim  of  Bentleys  and 
Scaligers,  word-weighers  and  metre-scanners,  till,  utterly 
ignorant  of  everything  which  could  have  softened  his 
temper,  dignified  his  misfortunes,  and  reconciled  him  to 
his  lot,  he  was  sinking  fast  into  the  grave,  soured  by 
incessant  pain  into  moroseness,  envy,  and  bitterness; 
exhausted  by  an  unwholesome  and  useless  application  to 
unprofitable  studies;  an  excellent  scholar  (as  it  is 
termed),  with  the  worst  regulated  and  worst  informed 
mind  of  almost  any  of  his  contemporaries  equal  to  him- 
self in  the  advantages  of  ability,  original  goodness  of 
disposition,  and  the  costly  and  profuse  expenditure  of 
education. 

But  the  vain  father,  as  he  heard,  on  all  sides,  of  his 
son's  talents,  saw  nothing  sinister  in  their  direction ; 
and  though  the  poor  boy  grew  daily  more  contracted  in 
mind  and  broken  in  frame.  Vavasour  yet  hugged  more 
and  more  closely  to  his  breast  the  hope  of  ultimate  cure 
for  the  latter,  and  future  glory  for  the  former.      So  he 


52  THE    DISOWNED. 

wont  on  hoaping  monoy,  and  oxtondincr  ncros,  and  plant- 
ing, and  improving,  and  bnilding,  and  licping,  and  an- 
ticipating, for  one  at  whose  very  feet  the  grave  was 
already  dug  ! 

But  we  left  Mr.  Brown  in  the  study,  making  his  bow 
and  professions  of  service  to  Mr.  Vavasour  ]\Iordaunt  and 
his  son. 

"  Good-day,  honest  Brown,"  said  the  former,  a  middle- 
sized  and  rather  stout  man,  witli  a  well-powdered  head, 
and  a  sharp,  shrewd,  and  very  sallow  countenance;  "  good- 
day, —  have  you  brought  any  of  the  foreign  Ihjueurs  you 
spoke  of,  for  Mr.  Henry  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  I  have  some  curiously  fine  eaii  cVor,  and 
liqueur  des  ties  besides,  the  marasquino  and  cura^oa. 
The  late  Lady  Waddilove  honored  my  taste  in  these 
matters  with  her  especial  approbation." 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Vavasour,  turning  to  his  son, 
who  lay  extended  on  the  couch,  reading,  not  the  Pro- 
metheus (that  most  noble  drama  ever  created) ,  but  the 
notes  upon  it,  —  "my  dear  boy,  as  you  are  fond  of 
liqueurs,  I  desired  Brown  to  get  some  peculiarly  fine; 
perhaps  —  " 

"  Pish  !  "  said  the  son,  fretfully  interrupting  him,  "  do, 
I  beseech  you,  take  your  hand  olf  my  shoulder.  8ee 
now,  you  have  made  me  lose  my  place.  I  really  do 
Avish  you  would  leave  me  alone  for  one  moment  in  the 
day." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Henry,"  said  the  father,  looking 
reverently  on  the  Greek  characters  Avhich  his  son  pre- 
ferred to  the  newspaper:  "  It  is  very  vexatious,  I  own; 
but  do  taste  these  liqueurs.  Dr.  Lukewarm  said  you 
might  have  everything  you  liked  —  " 

"  But  quiet !  "  muttered  the  cripple. 

"  I   assure   you,  sir,"  said   the  wandering  merchant, 


THE   DISOWNED.  53 

"  that  they  are  excellent;  allow  me,  Mr.  Vavasour  Mor- 
daunt,  to  ring  for  a  corkscrew.  I  really  do  think,  sir, 
that  ]\rr.  Henry  looks  much  better,  —  I  declare  he  has 
quite  a  color." 

"  Xo,  indeed  !  "  said  Vavasour,  eagerly.  "  Well,  it 
seems  to  me,  too,  that  he  is  getting  better.      I  intend 

him  to  try  Mr.  E 's  patent  collar  in  a  day  or  two ; 

but  that  will  in  some  measure  prevent  his  reading.  A 
great  pity;  for  I  am  very  anxioxis  that  he  should  lose  no 
time  in  his  studies  just  at  present.  He  goes  to  Cam- 
bridge in  October." 

"  Indeed,  sir.  Well,  he  will  set  the  town  in  a  blaze, 
I  guess,  sir  !  Everybody  says  what  a  tine  scholar  Mr. 
Henry  is,  —  even  in  the  servants'  hall  I  " 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Vavasour,  gratified  even  by  this 
praise ;  "  he  is  clever  enougli.  Brown ;  and,  what  is  more  " 
(and  here  Vavasour's  look  grew  sanctified),  "  he  is  good 
enough.  His  principles  do  equal  honor  to  his  head 
and  heart.  He  would  be  no  son  of  mine  if  he  were  not 
as  much  the  gentleman  as  the  scholar. " 

The  youth  lifted  his  heavy  and  distorted  face  from 
his  book ,  and  a  sneer  raised  his  lip  for  a  moment ;  but  a 
sudden  spasm  of  pain  seizing  him,  the  expression 
changed,  and  Vavasour,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him,  hastened  to  his  assistance. 

"Throw  open  the  Avindow,  Brown;  ring  the  bell, 
call  —  " 

"  Booh,  father,"  cried  the  boy,  with  a  sharp,  angry 
voice,  "  I  am  not  going  to  die  yet,  nor  faint  either;  but 
it  is  all  your  fault.  If  you  tuill  have  those  odious,  vul- 
gar people  here  for  your  own  pleasure,  at  least  siiffer  me, 
another  day,  to  retire." 

"  My  son,  my  son  !  "  said  the  grieved  father,  in  re- 
proachful anger,  "  it  was  my  anxiety  to  give  you  some 


54  THE   DISOWNED. 

trifling  enjoyment  that  brought  Brown  here,  —  you  must 
be  sensible  of  that !  " 

"  You  tease  me  to  death,"  grumbled  the  peevish 
unfortunate. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  "shall  I  leave  the 
bottles  here,  or  do  you  please  that  I  should  give  them 
to  the  butler?  I  see  that  I  am  displeasing  and  trouble- 
some to  Mr.  Henry;  but  as  my  worthy  friend  and 
patroness ,  the  late  Lady  —  " 

"  Go,  go,  honest  Brown  !  "  said  Vavasour  (who  desired 
every  man's  good  word),  —  "  go,  and  give  the  liqueurs  to 
Preston.  Mr.  Henry  is  extremely  sorry  that  he  is  too 
unwell  to  see  you  now ;  and  I  —  I  have  the  heart  of  a 
father  for  his  sufferings. " 

Mr.  Brown  withdrew.  "  *  Odious  and  vulgar,'  "  said 
he  to  himself,  in  a  little  fury,  — for  Mr.  BroAvn  pecu- 
liarly valued  himself  on  his  gentility,  —  "  '  odious  and 
vulgar  !  '  To  think  of  his  little  lordship  uttering  such 
shameful  words  !  However,  I  will  go  into  the  steward's 
room,  and  abuse  him  there.  But,  I  suppose,  I  shall  get 
no  dinner  in  this  house,  —  no,  not  so  much  as  a  crust  of 
bread;  for  while  the  old  gentleman  is  launching  out  into 
such  prodigious  expenses  on  a  great  scale,  —  making 
heathenish  temples,  and  spoiling  the  fine  old  house  with 
his  new  picture  gallery  and  nonsense,  —  he  is  so  close 
in  small  matters,  that  1  warrant  not  a  candle-end  escapes 
hira:  griping  and  pinching,  and  squeezing  with  one 
hand,  and  scattering  money  as  if  it  were  dirt  witli  the 
other, — and  all  for  that  cross,  ugly,  di?formed,  little 
whipper-snapper  of  a  son.  'Odious  and  vulgar,'  in- 
deed !  What  shocking  language !  Mr.  Algernon  J\lor- 
daunt  would  never  have  made  use  of  such  words,  I 
know.  And,  bless  me,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  wonder 
where  that  poor  gentleman  is,  —  the  young  heir  here  is 


THE   DISOWNED.  55 

not  long  for  this  world,  I  can  see;  and  who  knows  but 
what  Mr.  Algernon  may  be  in  great  distress ;  and  I  am 
sure,  as  far  as  four  hundred  pounds,  or  even  a  thousand, 
go,  1  would  not  mind  lending  it  him,  only  ixpon  the 
post-orbits  of  Squire  Vavasour  and  his  hopeful.  I  like 
doing  a  kind  thing;  and  Mr.  Algernon  was  always  very 
good  to  me;  and  I  am  sure  I  don't  care  about  the  se- 
curity,  though  I  think  it  will  be  as  sure  as  sixpence,  —  for 
the  old  gentleman  must  be  past  sixty,  and  the  young 
one  is  the  worse  life  of  the  two.  And  when  he  's  gone, 
—  what  relation  so  near  as  Mr.  Algernon  1  We  should 
help  one  another,  —  it  is  but  one's  duty ;  and  if  he  is  in 
great  distress  he  would  not  mind  a  handsome  premium. 
"Well,  nobody  can  say  Morris  Brown  is  not  as  charitable 
as  the  best  Christian  breathing;  and  as  the  late  Lady 
Waddilove  very  justly  observed,  '  Brown,  believe  me,  a 
prudent  risk  is  the  surest  gain!  '  I  will  lose  no  time  in 
finding  the  late  squire  out." 

Muttering  over  these  reflections,  Mr.  Brown  took  his 
way  to  the  steward's  room. 


66  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LV. 

Clar.  —  How,  two  letters  ?  —  The  Lover's  Progress. 

LETTER    FROM     CLARENCE    LINDEN,    ESQ.,    TO    THE     DUKE    OP 
HAVERFIELD, 

Hotel ,  Calais. 

My  dear  Duke, —  After  your  kind  letter,  you  will  forgive, 
me  for  not  having  called  upon  you  before  I  left  England,  — 
for  you  have  led  me  to  hope  that  I  may  dispense  with  cere- 
mony towards  you  ;  and,  in  sad  and  sober  earnest,  I  was  in 
no  mood  to  visit  even  you  during  the  few  days  I  was  in  Lon- 
don previous  to  my  departure.  Some  French  philosopher 
has  said  that  "  the  best  compliment  we  can  paj'  our  friends, 
when  in  sickness  or  misfortune,  is  to  avoid  them."  I  will  not 
say  how  far  I  disagree  witli  this  sentiment  ;  but  I  know  tli;it 
a  French  philo.-?o])her  will  be  an  unanswerable  authority  with 
you,  and  so  I  will  take  shelter  even  under  the  battery  of  an 
enemy. 

I  am  waiting  here  for  some  days,  in  expectation  of  Lord 
Aspeden's  arrival.  Sick  as  I  was  of  England,  and  all  that  has 
lately  occurred  to  me  there,  I  was  glad  to  have  an  opportunity 
of  leaving  it  sooner  than  my  chief  could  do ;  and  I  anmse  my- 
self verj'  inditferently  in  this  dull  town,  with  reading  all  the 
morning,  plays  all  the  evening,  and  dreams  of  my  liapj)ier 
friends  all  the  night. 

And  so  you  are  sorry  that  I  did  not  destroy  Lord  Borodaile  ? 
My  dear  duke,  you  would  have  been  much  more  sorry  if  I  had  I 
What  could  you  then  have  done  for  a  living  Pasquin  for  your 
stray  lampoons  and  vagrant  sarcasms  1  Had  an  unfortunate 
bullet  carried  away 

"  That  peer  of  England,  —  pillar  ot  the  state/* 


THE   DISOWNED.  57 

as  you  term  him, — prav,  on  whom  could  "Diike  Humphrey 
unfold  his  griefs  "  1  Ah,  DuKe,  better  as  it  is,  believe  me  ; 
and,  whenever  you  are  at  a  loss  for  a  subject  for  wit,  you  will 
find  cause  to  bless  my  forbearance,  and  congratulate  yourself 
upon  the  existence  of  its  object. 

Dare  I  hope  that,  amidst  all  the  gayeties  which  court  you, 
you  will  find  time  to  write  to  me  '(  If  so,  you  shall  have  in 
return  the  earliest  intelligence  of  every  new  soprano,  and  the 
most  elaborate  criticisms  on  every  budding  figurante  of  our 
court. 

Have  you  met  Trollolop  lately,  — and  in  what  new  pursuit 
are  his  intellectual  energies  engaged  ?  There,  you  see,  I  have 
fairly  entrapped  your  Grace  into  a  question  which  common 
courtesy  will  oblige  you  to  answer,  —  Adieu,  ever,  my  dear 
duke,  most  truly  yours,  etc. 

LETTER   FROM   THE   DUKE    OF    HAVERFIELD   TO   CLARENCE 
LINDEN,    ESQ. 

A  THOUSAND  thanks,  mon  cher,  for  your  letter,  though  it  was 
certainly  less  amusing  and  animated  than  I  could  have  wished 
it,  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own  ;  yet  it  could  not  have 
been  more  welcomely  received  had  it  been  as  witty  as  your 
conversation  itself.  I  heard  that  you  had  accepted  the  place 
of  secretary  to  Lord  Aspeden,  and  that  you  had  passed  through 
London  on  your  way  to  the  Continent,  looking  (the  amiable 
Callythorpe,  "  who  never  Hatters,"  is  my  authority)  more  like 
a  ghost  than  j^ourself.  So  you  may  be  sure,  my  dear  Linden, 
that  I  was  very  anxious  to  be  convinced,  under  your  own  hand, 
of  your  carnal  existence. 

Take  care  of  yourself,  my  good  fellow,  and  don't  imagine, 
as  I  am  apt  to  do,  that  youth  is  like  my  hunter.  Fearnought, 
and  will  carry  you  over  everything.  In  return  for  your  philo- 
sophical maxim,  I  will  give  you  another:  "  In  age  we  should 
remember  that  we  have  been  young ;  and  in  youth,  that  we  are 
to  be  old."  Ehem !  —  am  I  not  profound  as  a  moralist  1  I 
think  a  few  such  sentences  would  become  my  long  face  well; 
and,  to  say  truth,  I  am  tired  of  being   witty,  —  every  one 


58  THE    DISOWNED. 

thinks  he  can  be  that,  —  so  I  will  borrow  Trollolop's  philoso- 
phy, take  snuff,  wear  a  wig  out  of  curl,  and  grow  wise  instead 
of  merry. 

Apropos  of  Trollolop,  let  me  not  forget  that  you  honor  him 
with  your  inquiries.  I  saw  him  three  days  since,  and  he 
asked  me  if  I  had  been  impressed  lately  with  the  idea  vulgarly 
called  Clarence  Linden  ;  and  he  then  proceeded  to  inform  me 
that  he  had  lieard  the  atoms  which  composed  your  frame  were 
about  to  be  resolved  into  a  new  form.  While  I  was  knitting 
my  brows  very  wisely  at  this  intelligence,  he  passed  on  to 
apprise  me  that  1  had  neither  length,  breadth,  nor  extension, 
nor  anything  but  mind.  Flattered  by  so  delicate  a  compli- 
ment to  my  understanding,  I  yielded  my  assent ;  and  he  then 
shifted  his  ground,  and  told  me  that  there  was  no  such  tlungaa 
mind,  —  that  we  were  but  modifications  of  matter,  —  and  that, 
in  a  word,  I  was  all  body.  I  took  advantage  of  this  doctrine, 
and  forthwith  removed  my  modification  of  matter  from  his. 

Findlater  has  just  lost  his  younger  brother  in  a  duel.  You 
have  no  idea  how  shocking  it  was.     Sir  Christopher  one  da}"- 

heard  his  brother,  who  had  just  entered  the dragoons, 

ridiculed  for  his  want  of  spirit,  by  Major  Elton,  who  professed 
to  be  the  youth's  best  friend  ;  the  honest  heart  of  our  worthy 
baronet  was  shocked  beyond  measure  at  this  perfidy,  and  the 
next  time  his  brother  mentioned  Elton's  name  with  praise, 
out  came  the  story.  You  may  guess  the  rest  :  young  Find- 
later  called  out  Elton,  who  shot  him  through  the  lungs !  "  I 
did  it  for  the  best,"  cried  Sir  Christopher. 

La  pauvre  petite  MeronviUe  !  What  an  Ariadne!  Just  as 
I  was  thinking  to  play  the  Bacchus  to  your  Theseus,  up  steps 
an  old  gentleman  from  Yorkshire,  who  hears  it  is  fashionable 
to  marry  bonas  robas,  proposes  honorable  matinmony,  and  de- 
prives me  and  the  world  of  La  MeronviUe!  The  wedding 
took  place  on  Monday  last,  and  the  happy  pair  set  out  to  their 
seat  in  the  North.  Verily,  we  shall  have  quite  a  new  race  in 
the  next  generation,  —  I  expect  all  the  babes  will  skip  into 
the  world  with  a  pas  de  zephyr,  singing  in  sweet  trebles,  — 

"  Little  dancing  loves  we  are  ! 
—  Who  the  deuce  is  our  pa])a  ?  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  59 

I  think  yon  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  Lord  Borodaile  is 
beginning  to  thaw,  —  I  saw  him  smile  the  other  day  !  Cer- 
tainly we  are  not  so  near  the  North  Pole  as  we  were  !  He  is 
going,  and  so  am  I,  in  the  course  of  the  autumn,  to  your  old 
friends,  the  Westboroughs.  Report  says  that  he  is  U7i  peu 
epris  de  la  belle  Flore ;  but  then,  report  is  such  a  liar  !  —  for 
uiy  own  part,  I  always  contradict  her. 

I  eagerly  embrace  your  offer  of  correspondence,  and  assure 
you  that  there  are  few  people  by  whose  friendship  I  conceive 
myself  so  much  honored  as  by  yours.  You  will  believe  this; 
for  you  know  that,  like  Callythorpe,  I  never  Hatter.  Farewell 
for  the  present.  —  Sincerely  yours, 

Haverfield. 


60  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LVI. 

Q.  Eliz.  —  Shall  I  be  tempted  of  the  devil  thus  ? 
IT.  Rick.  —  Ay,  if  the  devil  tempt  thee  to  do  good. 
Q.  Ehz.  —  Shall  I  forget  myself  to  be  myself  ? 

Shakkspeare. 

It  wanted  one  hour  to  midnight,  as  Cranford  walked 
slowly  to  the  lonely  and  humlde  street  where  he  had 
appointed  his  meeting  with  Glendower.  It  was  a  stormy 
and  fearful  night.  The  day  had  been  uncommonly  sul- 
try, and  as  it  died  away,  thick  masses  of  cloud  came 
laboring  along  the  air,  which  laj'^  heavy  and  breathless, 
as  if  under  a  spell,  —  as  if  in  tho^e  dense  and  haggard 
vapors  the  rider  of  the  storm  sat,  like  an  incubus,  upon 
the  atmosphere  beneath,  and  paralyzed  the  motion  and 
wholesomeness  of  the  sleeping  winds.  And  about  the 
hour  of  twilight,  or  rather  when  twilight  should  have 
been,  instead  of  its  quiet  star,  from  one  obscure  corner 
of  the  heavens  flashed  a  solitary  gleam  of  lightning, 
lingered  a  moment, — 

"And  ere  a  man  had  power  to  say,  Behold! 
The  jaws  of  darkness  did  devour  it  up." 

But  then,  as  if  aAvakened  from  a  torpor  by  a  signal 
universally  acknowledged,  from  the  courts  and  quarters 
of  heaven  came,  blaze  after  blaze  and  peal  upon  peal, 
the  light  and  voices  of  the  elements  when  they  walk 
abroad.  The  rain  fell  not;  all  was  dry  and  arid:  the 
mood  of  nature  seemed  not  gentle  enough  for  tears ;  and 
the  lightning,  livid  and  forked,  flashed  from  the  sullen 
clouds  with  a  deadly  fierceness  made  trebly  perilous  by 


THE  DISOWNED.  61 

the  panting  drought  and  stagnation  of  the  air.  The 
streets  were  empty  and  silent,  as  if  the  huge  city  had 
been  doomed  and  delivered  to  the  wrath  of  the  tempest,  — 
and  ever  and  anon  the  lightnings  paused  upon  the  house- 
tops, shook  and  quivered  as  if  meditating  their  stroke, 
and  then,  baffled ,  as  it  were,  by  some  superior  and  guardian 
agency,  vanished  into  their  gloomy  tents,  and  made  their 
next  descent  from  some  opposite  corner  of  the  skies. 

It  was  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  force  with  which 
a  cherished  object  occupies  the  thoughts,  and  of  the  all- 
sufficiency  of  the  human  mind  to  itself,  the  slowness  and 
xniconsciousness  of  danger  with  which  Crauford,  a  man 
luxurious  as  well  as  naturally  timid,  moved  amidst  the 
angry  fires  of  heaven,  and  brooded,  undisturbed  and 
sullenly  serene,  over  the  project  at  his  heart. 

"  A  rare  night  for  our  meeting,"  thought  he;  "  I  sup- 
pose he  will  not  fail  me.  Now  let  me  con  over  my 
task.  I  must  not  tell  him  all  yet.  Such  babes  must 
be  led  into  error  before  they  can  walk, — just  a  little 
inkling  will  suffice,  a  glimpse  into  the  arcana  of  my 
scheme.  Well,  it  is  indeed  fortunate  that  I  met  him; 
for  verily  I  am  surrounded  with  danger,  and  a  very  little 
delay  in  the  assistance  I  am  forced  to  seek,  might  exalt 
me  to  a  higher  elevation  than  the  peerage." 

Such  was  the  meditation  of  this  man  as  with  a  slow, 
shuffling  walk,  characteristic  of  his  mind,  he  proceeded 
to  the  appointed  spot. 

A  cessation  of  unusual  length  in  the  series  of  the 
lightnings,  and  the  consequent  darkness,  against  which 
the  dull  and  scanty  lamps  vainly  struggled,  prevented 
Crauford  and  another  figure,  approaching  from  the  op- 
posite quarter,  seeing  each  other  till  they  almost  touched. 
Crauford  stopped  abruptly. 

"Is  it  you?"  said  he. 


62  THE   DISOWNED. 

"It  is  a  man  wlio  lias  outlived  fortune!"  answercil 
Glendower,  in  the  exa^^^ge rated  and  mc^taphorical  lan- 
guage which  the  thoughts  of  men  who  imagine  warmly, 
and  are  excited  powerfidly,  so  often  assume. 

"Then,"  rejoined  Crauford,  "you  are  the  more  suited 
for  my  purpose.  A  little  urging  of  necessity  behind  is 
a  marvellous  whetter  of  the  appetite  to  danger  hefore. 
He!  he!"  And  as  he  said  this,  his  low,  chuckling 
laugh  jarringly  enough  contrasted  with  the  character  of 
the  night  and  his  com})anion. 

Glendower  replied  not:  a  pause  ensued;  and  the 
lightning,  which,  spreading  on  a  sudden  from  east  to 
west,  hung  over  the  city  a  burning  and  ghastly  canopy, 
showed  the  face  of  each  to  the  other,  w'orking,  and 
almost  haggard,  as  it  was,  with  the  conception  of  dark 
thoughts,  and  rendered  wan  and  uneartldy  by  the  spec- 
tral light  in  which  it  was  beheld.  "  It  is  an  awful 
night !  "  said  Glendower. 

"  True,"  answered  Crauford, — "a  very  awful  night; 
but  we  are  all  safe  under  the  care  of  Providence. 
Jesus!  what  a  flash!  Think  you  it  is  a  favorable  op- 
portunity for  our  conversation  ?  " 

"Why  not?"  said  Glendower;  "what  have  the  thun- 
ders and  wrath  of  Heaven  to  do  witli  us  ?  " 

"H-e-m!  h-e-m!  God  sees  all  things,"  rejoined 
Crauford,  "  and  avenges  himself  on  the  guilty  by  his 
storms !  " 

"Ay;  but  those  are  the  storms  of  the  heart!  I  toll 
you  that  even  the  innocent  may  have  that  within,  to 
which  the  loudest  tempests  without  are  peace!  But 
guilt,  you  say,  — what  have  we  to  do  with  guilt?  " 

Crauford  hesitated,  and  avoiding  any  reply  to  this 
question,  drew  Glendower's  arm  within  his  own,  and 
in  a  low,  half-whispered  tone,  said,  — 


THE  DISOWNED.  63 

"  Glendower,  survey  mankind;  Jook  with  a  passion- 
less and  unprejudiced  eye  upon  the  scene  which  moves 
around  us :  what  do  you  see  anywhere  but  the  same 
reacted  and  eternal  law  of  nature,  — all,  all  preying  upon 
each  other?  Or  if  there  he  a  solitary  individual  who 
refrains,  he  is  as  a  man  without  a  common  badge,  with- 
out a  marriage  garment,  and  the  rest  trample  him  under 
foot!  Glendower,  you  are  such  a  man!  Now  hearken, 
I  will  deceive  you  not ;  I  honor  you  too  much  to  beguile 
you,  even  to  your  own  good.  I  own  to  you,  fairly  and 
at  once,  that  in  the  scheme  I  shall  unfold  to  you,  there 
rnay  be  something  repugnant  to  the  factitious  and  theo- 
retical principles  of  education, — 'Something  hostile  to 
the  prejudices,  though  not  to  the  reasonings  of  the  mind; 
but  —  " 

"Hold!"  said  Glendower,  abruptly,  pausing  and  fix- 
ing his  bold  and  searching  eye  upon  the  tempter,  — 
"  hold !  —  there  will  be  no  need  of  argument  or  refine- 
ment in  this  case;  tell  me  at  once  your  scheme,  and  at 
once  I  will  accept  or  reject  it." 

"  Gently ,"  answered  Crauf ord :  "  to  all  deeds  of  con- 
tract there  is  a  preamble.  Listen  to  me  yet  farther; 
when  I  have  ceased  I  will  listen  to  you.  It  is  in 
vain  that  you  place  man  in  cities;  it  is  in  vain  that 
you  fetter  him  with  laws;  it  is  in  vain  that  you  pour 
into  his  mind  the  light  of  an  imperfect  morality,  of 
a  glimmering  wisdom,  of  an  ineffectual  religion:  in 
all  places  he  is  the  same,  —  the  same  savage  and 
crafty  being  who  makes  the  passions  which  rule  him- 
self the  tools  of  his  conquest  over  others!  There  is 
in  all  creation  but  one  evident  law,  —  self-preservation! 
Split  it  as  you  like  into  hairbreadths  and  atoms,  it 
is  still  fundamentall}^  and  essentially  unaltered.  Glen- 
dower,   that    self-preservation    is    our   bond   now.      Of 


64  THE    DISOWNED. 

myself  T  do  not  nt  present  speak,  —  T  refer  only  to 
you :  self-preservation  commands  you  to  place  implicit 
confidence  in  me;  it  impels  you  to  abjure  indigence 
by    acce])ting   the    proposal    I    am    about    to    make    to 

you." 

"  You,  as  yet,  speak  enigmas,"  said  Glendower;  "  but 
they  are  sufficiently  clear  to  tell  me  tlieir  sense  is  not 
sucli  as  I  have  heard  you  utter." 

"You  are  right.  Truth  is  not  always  safe,  —  safe 
either  to  others,  or  to  ourselves!  But  I  dare  open  to 
3'ou  now  my  real  heart :  look  in  it,  —  I  dare  to  say  that 
you  will  behold  charity,  benevolence,  piety  to  God,  love 
and  friendship  at  this  moment  to  yourself;  but  I  own, 
also,  that  you  will  behold  there  a  determination  — 
which,  to  me,  seems  courage  —  not  to  be  the  only  idle 
being  in  the  world,  where  all  are  busy;  or,  worse  still, 
to  be  the  only  one  engaged  in  a  perilous  and  uncertain 
game,  and  yet  shimning  to  employ  all  the  arts  of  which 
he  is  master.  I  will  own  to  you  that,  long  since,  had 
I  been  foolishly  inert,  I  should  liave  been,  at  this  mo- 
ment, more  penniless  and  destitute  than  yourself.  I 
live  happy,  respected,  wealthy!  I  enjoy  in  their  widcr^t 
range  the  blessings  of  life.  I  dispense  those  blessings 
to  others.  Look  round  the  world,  —  whose  name  stands 
fairer  than  mine;  whose  hand  relieves  more  of  human 
distresses;  Avhosc  tongue  preaches  purer  doctrines'? 
None,  Glendower,  none.  I  offer  to  you  means  not 
dissimilar  to  those  I  have  chosen, — fortunes  not  un- 
equal to  those  I  possess.  Nothing  but  the  most  un- 
justifiable fastidiousness  will  make  you  hesitate  to  accept 
my  offer." 

"  You  cannot  expect  that  T  have  met  you  this  night 
with  a  resolution  to  be  unjustifiably  fastidious,"  said 
Glendower,  with  a  hollow  and  cold  smile. 


THE   DISOWNED.  65 

Crauford  did  not  immediately  answer,  for  he  was  con- 
sidering whether  it  was  yet  the  time  for  disclosing  the 
important  secret.  While  he  was  deliberating,  the  sullen 
clouds  began  to  break  from  their  suspense.  A  double 
darkness  gathered  around,  and  a  few  large  drops  fell  on 
the  ground  in  token  of  a  more  general  discharge  about  to 
follow  from  the  floodgates  of  heaven.  The  two  men 
moved  onward,  and  took  shelter  under  an  old  arch. 
Crauford  first  broke  silence.  "  Hist!  "  said  he  —  "  hist! 
—  do  you  hear  anything  1  " 

"  Yes !  I  heard  the  winds  and  the  rain,  and  the  shak- 
ing houses,  and  the  plashing  pavements,  and  the  reeking 
house-tops,  — nothing  more." 

Looking  long  and  anxiously  aroimd  to  certify  himself 
that  none  was  indeed  the  witness  of  their  conference, 
Crauford  approached  close  to  Glendower,  and  laid  his 
hand  heavily  upon  his  arm.  At  that  moment  a  vivid 
and  lengthened  flash  of  lightning  shot  through  the  ruined 
arch,  and  gave  to  Crauford's  countenance  a  lustre  which 
Glendower  almost  started  to  behold.  The  face,  usually 
so  smooth,  calm,  bright  in  complexion,  and  almost  in- 
expressive from  its  extreme  composure,  now  agitated  by 
the  excitement  of  the  moment,  and  tinged  by  the  ghastly 
light  of  the  skies,  became  literally  fearful.  The  cold, 
blue  eye  glared  out  from  its  socket ;  the  lips  blanched, 
and  parting  in  act  to  speak,  showed  the  white,  glisten- 
ing teeth;  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  drawn  down 
in  a  half  sneer,  gave  to  the  cheeks,  rendered  green  and 
livid  by  the  lightning,  a  lean  and  hollow  appearance, 
contrary  to  their  natural  shape. 

"It  is,"  said  Crauford,  in  a  whispered  but  distinct 
tone,  "a  perilous  secret  that  I  am  about  to  disclose  to 
you.  I  indeed  have  no  concern  in  it,  but  my  lords  the 
judges  have,  and  you  will  not  therefore  be  surprised  if 

A'OL.  II.  —  5 


66  THE   DISOWNED. 

I  forestall  the  ceremonies  of  tlieir  court,  and  require  an 
oath." 

Then,  his  manner  and  voice  suddenly  changing  into 
an  earnest  and  deep  solemnity,  as  excitement  gave  him 
an  eloquence  more  impressive,  because  unnatural  to  his 
ordinary  moments,  he  continued:  "By  those  lightnings 
and  commotions  above;  by  the  heavens  in  which  they 
revel  in  their  terrible  sports ;  by  the  earth,  whose  towers 
they  crumble,  and  herbs  they  blight,  and  creatures  they 
blast  into  cinders  at  their  will;  by  Him  whom,  what- 
ever be  the  name  He  bears,  all  men  in  the  living  world 
worship  and  tremble  before;  by  wliatever  is  sacred  in 
this  great  and  mysterious  universe,  and  at  the  peril  of 
whatever  can  wither,  and  destroy,  and  curse,  —  swear  to 
preserve  inviolable  and  forever  the  secret  I  shall  whis- 
per to  your  ear!  " 

The  profound  darkness  which  now,  in  the  pause  of  the 
lightning,  wrapped  the  scene,  hid  from  Crauford  all 
sight  of  the  effect  he  had  produced,  and  even  the  very 
outline  of  Glendower's  figure;  but  the  gloom  made 
more  distinct  the  voice  which  thrilled  through  it  upon 
Crauford 's  ear. 

"  Promise  me  that  there  is  not  dishonor,  nor  crime, 
which  is  dishonor,  in  this  confidence,  and  I  swear." 

Crauford  ground  his  teeth.  He  was  about  to  reply 
impetuously,  but  he  checked  himself.  "I  am  not  go- 
ing," thought  he,  "  to  communicate  my  own  share  of 
this  plot,  but  merely  to  state  that  a  plot  does  exist,  and 
then  to  point  out  in  what  manner  he  can  profit  by  it,  — 
BO  far,  therefore,  there  is  no  guilt  in  his  concealment, 
and,  consequently,  no  excuse  for  liini  to  break  his 
vow." 

Kapidly  running  over  this  self-argument,  he  said 
aloud,  "  I  promise!  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  67 

"And,"  rejoined  Glendower,  "I  swear!  " 

At  the  close  of  this  sentence,  another  flash  of  light- 
ning again  made  darkness  visible,  and  Glendower,  be- 
holding the  countenance  of  his  companion,  again  recoiled; 
for  its  mingled  haggardness  and  triumph  seemed  to  his 
excited  imagination  the  very  expression  of  a  fiend. 
"Now,"  said  Crauford,  relapsing  into  his  usual  careless 
tone,  somewhat  enlivened  by  his  sneer,  —  "now,  then, 
you  must  not  interrupt  me  in  my  disclosure  by  those 
starts  and  exclamations  which  break  from  your  phi- 
losophy like  sparks  from  flint.     Hear  me  throughout. " 

And  bending  down  till  his  mouth  reached  Glen- 
dower's  ear,  he  commenced  his  recital.  Artfully  hiding 
his  own  agency,  the  masterspring  of  the  gigantic  ma- 
chinery of  fraud,  which,  too  mighty  for  a  single  hand, 
required  an  assistant;  throwing  into  obscurity  the  sin, 
while,  knowing  the  undaunted  courage  and  desperate 
fortunes  of  the  man,  he  did  not  affect  to  conceal  the 
danger,  expatiating  upon  the  advantages,  the  immense 
and  almost  inexhaustible  resources  of  wealth  which  his 
scheme  suddenly  opened  upon  one  in  the  deepest  abyss 
of  poverty,  and  slightly  sketching,  as  if  to  excite  vanity, 
the  ingenuity  and  genius  by  which  the  scheme  origi- 
nated, and  could  only  be  sustained,  —  Crauford's  de- 
tail of  temptation,  in  its  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
in  its  adaptation  of  act  to  principles,  in  its  weblike 
craft  of  self -concealment,  and  the  speciousness  of  its 
lure,  was  indeed  a  splendid  masterpiece  of  villanous 
invention. 

But  while  Glendower  listened,  and  his  silence  flat- 
tered Crauford's  belief  of  victory,  not  for  one  single 
moment  did  a  weak  or  yielding  desire  creep  around  his 
heart.  Subtly  as  the  scheme  was  varnished,  and  scarce 
a   tithe   of  its   comprehensive    enormity    unfolded,    the 


68  THE   DISOWNED. 

strong  and  acnte  mind  of  one  long  accustomed  to  un- 
ravel sopliistry  and  gaze  on  the  loveliness  of  tr\itli,  saw 
at  once  that  the  scheme  proposed  was  of  the  most  uu- 
mingled  treachery  and  baseness.  Sick,  chilled,  with- 
ering at  heart,  Glendower  leaned  against  the  damp  wall ; 
as  every  word  which  the  tempter  fondly  imagined  was 
irresistibly  confirming  his  purpose,  tore  away  the  last 
prop  to  which,  in  the  credulity  of  hope,  the  student  had 
clung,  and  mocked  while  it  crushed  the  fondness  of  his 
belief. 

Crauford  ceased,  and  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  grasp 
Glendower's.  He  felt  it  not.  "  You  do  not  speak,  my 
friend,"  said  he;  "do  you  deliberate,  or  have  you  not 
decided?"  Still  no  answer  came.  Surprised,  and  half 
alarmed,  he  turned  round,  and  perceived  by  a  momentary 
flash  of  lightning  that  Glendower  had  risen,  and  was 
moving  away  towards  the  mouth  of  the  arch. 

"  Good  Heavens!  Glendower,"  cried  Crauford,  "  where 
are  you  going  1  " 

"  Anywhere,"  cried  Glendower,  in  a  siidden  paroxysm 
of  indignant  passion, — "anywhere  in  this  great  globe 
of  suffering,  so  that  the  agonies  of  my  human  flesh  and 
heart  are  not  polluted  by  the  accents  of  crime!  And 
such  crime!  Why,  I  would  rather  go  forth  into  the 
highways,  and  win  bread  by  the  sharp  knife  and  the 
death  struggle,  than  sink  my  soul  in  such  mire  and 
filthiness  of  sin.  Fraud,  fraud,  — treachery!  Merciful 
Father!  what  can  be  my  state,  when  these  are  supposed 
to  tempt  me !  " 

Astonished  and  aghast,  Crauford  remained  rooted  to 
the  spot. 

"Oh!"  continued  Glendower,  and  hi^^  nnbl(>  nature 
was  wrung  to  the  utmost, — "oh,  jMAN  —  MAN!  that 
I  should  have  devoted  my  best  and  freshest  years  to  the 


THE   DISOWNED.  69 

dream  of  serving  thee!  In  my  boyish  enthusiasm,  in 
my  brief  day  of  pleasure  and  of  power,  in  the  intoxica- 
tion of  love,  in  the  reverse  of  fortune,  in  the  squalid  and 
obscure  chambers  of  degradation  and  poverty,  that  one 
hope  animated,  cheered,  sustained  me  through  all! 
In  temptation  did  this  hand  belie,  or  in  sickness  did 
this  brain  forego,  or  in  misery  did  this  heart  forget  tliy 
great  and  advancing  cause?  In  the  wide  world,  is 
there  one  being  whom  I  have  injured,  even  in  thought, 
—  one  being  who,  in  the  fellowship  of  want,  should 
not  have  drunk  of  my  cup,  or  broken  with  me  tlie  last 
morsel  of  my  bread?  —  and  now  —  now,  is  it  come  to 
this  ?  " 

And,  hiding  his  face  with  his  hands,  he  gave  way  to 
a  violence  of  feeling,  before  which  the  Aveaker  nature  of 
Crauford  stood  trembling  and  abashed.  It  lasted  not 
long;  he  raised  his  head  from  its  drooping  posture,  and 
as  he  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  arch,  a  prolonged  flash 
from  the  inconstant  skies  shone  full  upon  his  form. 
Tall,  erect,  still,  the  gloomy  and  ruined  walls  gave  his 
colorless  countenance  and  haughty  stature  in  bold  and 
distinct  relief;  all  trace  of  the  past  passion  had  van- 
ished: perfectly  calm  and  set,  his  features  borrowed  even 
dignity  from  their  marble  paleness,  and  the  marks  of 
suffering,  which  the  last  few  months  had  writ  in  legible 
characters  on  the  cheek  and  brow.  Seeking  out,  with 
an  eye  to  which  the  intolerable  lightnings  seemed  to 
have  lent  something  of  their  fire,  the  cowering  and 
bended  form  of  his  companion,  he  said,  — 

"  Go  home,  miserable  derider  of  the  virtue  you  cannot 
understand;  go  to  your  luxurious  and  costly  home;  go 
and  repine  that  human  nature  is  not  measured  by  your 
mangled  and  crippled  laws:  amidst  men,  yet  more  fallen 
than  I  am,  hope  to  select  your  victim;  amidst  prisons, 


70  THE   DISOWNED. 

and  hovels,  and  roofless  sheds;  amidst  rags  and  destitu- 
tion, and  wretches  made  mad  by  hunger,  — hope  that  you 
may  find  a  villain.  I  leave  you  to  that  hope,  and  —  to 
remembrance !  " 

As  Glendower  moved  away,  Crauford  recovered  him- 
self. Rendered  desperate  by  the  vital  necessity  of  pro- 
curing some  speedy  aid  in  his  designs,  and  not  yet 
perfectly  persuaded  of  the  fallacy  of  his  former  judg- 
ment, he  was  resolved  not  to  suffer  Glendower  thus  easily 
to  depart.  Smothering  his  feelings  by  an  effort  violent 
even  to  his  habitual  hypocrisy,  he  sprang  forward  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  Glendower' s  shoulder. 

"  Stay,  stay,"  said  he,  in  a  soothing  and  soft  voice; 
"  you  have  wronged  me  greatly.  I  pardon  your  warmth, 
—  nay,  I  honor  it;  but  hereafter  you  will  repent  your 
judgment  of  me.  At  least,  do  justice  to  my  intentions. 
Was  I  an  actor  in  the  scheme  proposed  to  you  1  —  what 
was  it  to  me  ?  Was  I  in  the  smallest  degree  to  be  bene- 
fited by  it  1  Could  I  have  any  other  motive  than  affec- 
tion for  you?  If  I  erred,  it  was  from  a  different  view 
of  the  question;  but  is  it  not  the  duty  of  a  friend  to  find 
expedients  for  distress,  and  to  leave  to  the  distressed 
person  the  right  of  accepting  or  rejecting  them?  But 
let  this  drop  forever;  partake  of  my  fortune,  —  be  my 
adopted  brother.  Here,  I  have  hundreds  about  me  at 
this  moment;  take  them  all,  and  own  at  least  that  I 
meant  you  well." 

Feeling  that  Glendower,  who  at  first  had  vainly 
endeavored  to  shake  off  his  hand,  now  turned  towards 
him,  though  at  the  moment  it  was  too  dark  to  see  his 
countenance,  the  wily  speaker  continued,  "  Yes,  Glen- 
dower, if  by  that  name  I  must  alone  address  you,  take 
all  I  have,  —  there  is  no  one  in  this  world  dearer  to  me 
than  you  are.     I  am  a  lonely  and   disappointed   man, 


THE   DISOWNED.  71 

without  children  or  ties,  I  sought  out  a  friend  who 
might  be  my  brother  in  life,  and  my  heir  in  death.  I 
found  you, — be  that  to  me!" 

"I  am  faint  and  weak,"  said  Glendower,  slowly, 
"  and  I  believe  my  senses  cannot  be  clear ;  but  a  minute 
since,  and  you  spoke  at  length,  and  with  a  terrible  dis- 
tinctness, words  which  it  polluted  my  very  ear  to  catch, 
and  now  you  speak  as  if  you  loved  me.  Will  it  please 
you  to  solve  the  riddle  1  " 

"The  truth  is  this,"  said  Crauford:  "I  knew  your 
pride,  —  I  feared  you  would  not  accept  a  permanent 
pec\iniary  aid,  even  from  friendship.  I  was  driven, 
therefore,  to  devise  some  plan  of  independence  for  you. 
I  could  think  of  no  plan  but  that  which  I  proposed. 
You  speak  of  it  as  wicked :  it  may  be  so ;  but  it  seemed 
not  wicked  to  me.  I  may  have  formed  a  wrong  —  I  own 
it  is  a  peculiar  —  system  of  morals;  but  it  is,  at  least, 
sincere.  Judging  of  my  proposal  by  that  system,  I  saw 
no  sin  in  it.  I  saw,  too,  much  less  danger  than,  in  the 
honesty  of  my  heart,  I  spoke  of.  In  a  similar  distress, 
I  solemnly  swear,  I  myself  would  have  adopted  a  similar 
relief.  Nor  is  this  all :  the  plan  proposed  would  have 
placed  thousands  in  your  power.  Forgive  me  if  I 
thought  your  life,  and  the  lives  of  those  most  dear  to 
you,  of  greater  value  than  these  sums  to  the  persons 
defrauded  —  ay,  defrauded,  if  you  will;  forgive  me  if 
I  thought  that  with  these  thousands  you  would  effect 
far  more  good  to  the  commimity  than  their  legitimate 
owners.  Upon  these  grounds,  and  on  some  others,  too 
tedious  now  to  state,  I  justified  my  proposal  to  my  con- 
science. Pardon  me,  I  again  beseech  you:  accept  my 
last  proposal;  be  my  partner,  my  friend,  my  heir;  and 
forget  a  scheme  never  proposed  to  you,  if  I  had  hoped 
(what  I  hope  now)  that  you  would  accept  the  alterna- 


72  THE    DISOWNED. 

tive,  which  it  is  my  pride  to  oifer,  and  wliicli  you  aro 
not  justified,  even  by  pride,  to  refuse." 

"  Great  Source  of  all  knowledge !  "  ejaculated  Glen- 
dower,  scarce  audibly,  and  to  himself.  "  Supreme  and 
unfathomal)le  God!  — dost  thou  most  loathe  or  pity  thine 
abased  creatures,  walking  in  their  dim  reason  upon  this 
little  earth,  and  sanctioning  fraud,  treachery,  crime, 
upon  a  principle  borrowed  from  thy  laws!  Oh!  when 
—  when  will  thy  full  light  of  wisdom  travel  down  to  us, 
and  guilt  and  sorrow,  and  this  world's  evil  mysteries, 
roll  away  like  vapors  before  the  blaze !  " 

"I  do  not  hear  you,  my  friend,"  said  Crauford. 
"  Speak  aloud ;  you  Avill  —  I  feel  you  Avill  accept  my 
ofifer,  and  become  my  brother!  " 

"Away!"  said  Glendower.     "I  will  not." 

"He  wanders,  —  his  brain  is  touched!"  muttered 
Crauford,  and  then  resumed  aloud,  "  Glendower,  we  are 
both  unfit  for  talk  at  present,  —  both  unstrung  by  our 
late  jar.  You  will  meet  me  again  to-morrow,  perhaps. 
I  will  accompany  you  now  to  your  door." 

"  Not  a  step :  our  paths  are  different. " 

"Well,  well,  if  you  will  have  it  so,  be  it  as  you 
please.  I  have  offended;  you  have  a  right  to  punish 
me,  and  play  the  churl  to-night,  — but  your  address?  " 

"  Yonder,"  said  Glendower,  pointing  to  the  heavens. 
"  Come  to  me  a  month  hence,  and  you  will  find  me 
there  !  " 

"Nay,  nay,  my  friend,  your  brain  is  heated;  but  yon 
leave  me!  Well,  as  I  said,  your  will  is  mine,  —  at 
least  take  some  of  these  paltry  notes  in  earnest  of  our 
bargain ;  remember  when  next  we  meet  you  will  share 
all  I  have." 

"You  remind  me,"  said  Glendower,  quietly,  "that 
we  have  old  debts  to  settle.     When  last  I  saw  you,  you 


THE   DISOWNED.  I  6 

lent  me  a  certain  sum ;  there  it  is,  take  it,  count  it,  — 
tliere  is  but  one  poor  guinea  gone.  Fear  not,  —  even  to 
the  uttermost  farthing  you  shall  be  repaid." 

"Why,  why,  this  is  unkind,  ungenerous.  Stay, 
stay  —  "  but,  waving  his  hand  impatiently,  Glendower 
darted  away,  and  passing  into  another  street,  the  dark- 
ness effectually  closed  upon  his  steps. 

"Tool,  fool  that  I  am,"  cried  Crauford,  stamping 
vehemently  on  the  ground,  — "  in  what  point  did  my 
wit  fail  me,  that  I  could  not  win  one  whom  very  hunger 
had  driven  into  my  net  1  But  I  must  yet  find  him,  and 
1  will,  —  the  police  shall  be  set  to  work;  these  half 
confidences  may  ruin  me.  And  how  deceitful  he  has 
proved,  —  to  talk  more  difiidently  than  a  whining  harlot 
upon  virtue,  and  yet  be  so  stubborn  upon  trial!  Dastard 
that  I  am  too,  as  well  as  fool,  —  I  felt  sunk  into  the 
dust  by  his  voice.  But  pooh,  T  must  have  him  yet; 
your  worst  villains  make  the  most  noise  about  the  first 
step.  True,  that  I  cannot  storm,  but  I  will  undermine. 
But,  wretch  that  I  am,  I  must  win  him,  or  another, 
soon,  or  I  perish  on  a  gibbet.     Out,  base  thought!  " 


74  THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTEK  LVII. 

Formam  quidem  ipsam,  Marce  fili,  et  tanquam  faciem  honesti  vi- 
des :  qu£E,  si  ociilis  cerneretur,  mirabiles  amores  (ut  ait  Plato) 
excitaret  sapientia.^  —  Tull. 

It  was  almost  dawn  when  Glendower  returned  to  his 
home.  Fearful  of  disturbing  his  wife,  he  stole  with 
mute  steps  to  the  damp  and  rugged  chamber  where  the 
last  son  of  a  princely  line,  and  the  legitimate  owner  of 
lands  and  halls  which  ducal  rank  might  have  envied, 
held  his  miserable  asylum.  The  first  faint  streaks  of 
coming  light  broke  through  the  shutterless  and  shattered 
windows,  and  he  saw  that  she  reclined  in  a  deep  sleep 
upon  the  chair  beside  their  child's  couch.  She  would 
not  go  to  bed  herself  till  Glendower  returned,  and  she 
had  sat  up  watching  and  praying,  and  listening  for  his 
footsteps,  till,  in  the  utter  exhaustion  of  debility  and 
sickness,  sleep  had  fallen  upon  her.  Glendower  bent 
over  her. 

"  Sleep,"  said  he,  —  "  sleep  on!  The  wicked  do  not 
come  to  thee  now.  Thou  art  in  a  world  that  has  no 
fellowship  with  this,  —  a  world  from  which  even  happi- 
ness is  not  banished!  Nor  woe,  nor  pain,  nor  memory 
of  the  past,  nor  despair  of  all  before  thee,  make  the 
characters  of  thy  present  state !  Thou  forestallest  the 
forgetfulness  of  the  grave,  and  thy  heart  concentrates  all 
earth's  comfort  in  one  word,  —  'oblivion.'     Beautiful, 

1  Son  Marcns,  you  see  the  form  and  as  it  were  the  face  of  Vir- 
tue,—  that  Wisdom,  which,  if  it  could  be  perceived  by  tlie  eyes, 
would  (as  riato  saith)  kiudle  absolute  aud  marvellous  affectiou. 


THE   DISOWNED.  75 

how  beautiful  thou  art  even  yet!  —  that  smile,  that 
momentary  blush, — years  have  not  conquered  thevi. 
They  are  as  when,  my  young  bride,  thou  didst  lean 
first  upon  my  bosom,  and  dream  that  sorrow  was  no 
more  !  And  I  have  brought  thee  unto  this.  These 
green  walls  make  thy  bridal  chamber,  ■ —  yon  fragments 
of  bread  thy  bridal  board.  Well!  it  is  no  matter;  thou 
art  on  thy  way  to  a  land  where  all  things,  even  a  break- 
ing heart,  are  at  rest.  I  weep  not;  wherefore  should  I 
Aveep  !  Tears  are  not  for  the  dead,  but  their  survivors. 
I  would  rather  see  tliee  drop  inch  by  inch  into  the 
grave,  and  smile  as  I  beheld  it,  than  save  thee  for  an  in- 
heritance of  sin.  What  is  there  in  this  little  and  sordid 
life  that  we  should  strive  to  hold  it?  What  in  this 
dreadful  dream  that  we  should  fear  to  wake  ?  " 

And  Glendower  knelt  beside  his  wife,  and,  despite 
his  words,  tears  flowed  fast  and  guslungly  down  his 
cheeks;  and  wearied  as  he  was,  he  watched  upon  her 
slumbers,  till  they  fell  from  the  eyes  to  which  his  pres- 
ence was  more  joyous  than  the  day. 

It  was  a  beautiful  thing,  even  in  sorrow,  to  see  that 
couple  whom  want  could  not  debase,  nor  misfortune, 
which  makes  even  generosity  selfish,  divorce!  All. that 
fate  had  stripped  from  the  poetry  and  graces  of  life ,  had 
not  shaken  one  leaf  from  the  romance  of  their  green 
and  uuwithered  affections  !  They  were  the  very  type  of 
love  in  its  holiest  and  most  enduring  shape :  their 
hearts  had  grown  together,  —  their  being  had  flowed 
through  caves  and  deserts,  and  reflected  the  storms  of  an 
angry  Heaven ;  but  its  waters  had  indissolubly  mingled 
into  one  !  Young,  gifted,  noble,  and  devoted,  they  were 
wortliy  victims  of  this  blighting  and  bitter  world! 
Their  garden  was  turned  into  a  wilderness;  but,  like 
our  first  parents,  it  was  hand  in  hand  that  they  took 


76  THE   DISOWNED. 

their  solitary  way!  Evil  beset  them,  but  they  swerved 
not;  the  rains  and  the  winds  fell  upon  their  unsheltered 
heads,  but  they  were  not  bowed;  and  through  the  mazes 
and  briers  of  this  weary  life,  their  bleeding  footsteps 
strayed  not, /or  theij  had  a  cletv  !  The  mind  seemed, 
as  it  were,  to  become  visible  and  external  as  the  frame 
decayed,  and  to  cover  the  body  with  something  of  its 
own  invulnerable  power ;  so  that  whatever  sliould  have 
attacked  the  mortal  and  frail  part,  fell  upon  that  which, 
imperishable  and  divine,  resisted  and  subdued  it! 

It  was  unfortunate  for  Glendower  that  he  never  again 
met  Wolfe;  for  neither  fanaticism  of  political  faith, 
nor  sternness  of  natural  temper,  subdued  in  the  repub- 
lican the  real  benevolence  and  generosity  which  redeemed 
and  elevated  his  character:  nor  could  any  impulse  of 
party-zeal  have  induced  him,  like  Crauford,  systemati- 
cally to  take  advantage  of  poverty  in  order  to  tempt  to 
i:)articipation  in  his  schemes.  From  a  more  evil  com- 
panion Glendower  had  not  yet  escaped:  Crauford,  by 
some  means  or  other,  found  out  his  abode,  and  lost  no 
time  in  availing  himself  of  the  discovery.  In  order 
fully  to  comprehend  his  unwearied  persecution  of  Glen- 
dower, it  must  constantly  be  remembered  that  to  this 
persecution  he  was  bound  by  a  necessity  which,  urgent, 
dark,  and  implicating  life  itself,  rendered  him  callous 
to  every  obstacle,  and  unsusceptible  of  all  remorse. 
With  the  exquisite  tact  whicli  he  possessed,  he  never 
openly  recurred  to  his  former  proposal  of  fraud ;  he 
contented  liiraself  with  endeavoring  to  persuade  Glen- 
dower to  accept  pecuniary  assistance,  but  in  vain.  The 
veil  once  torn  from  his  character,  no  craft  could  restore. 
Through  all  his  pretences,  and  sevenfold  hypocrisy, 
Glendower  penetrated  at  once  into  his  real  motives:  he 
was  not  to  be  duped  by  assurances  of  friendship  which 


THE    DISOWNED.  77 

he  knew  the  very  dissimilarities  between  their  natures 
rendered  impossible.  He  had  seen  at  the  first,  despite 
of  all  allegations  to  the  contrary,  that  in  the  fraud  Crau- 
ford  had  proposed,  that  person  could  by  no  means  be  an 
uninfluenced  and  cold  adviser.  In  after  conversations, 
Crauford,  driven,  by  the  awful  interest  he  had  in  suc- 
cess, from  his  usual  consummateness  of  duplicity,  be- 
trayed, in  various  important  minutise,  how  deeply  he  was 
implicated  in  the  crime  for  which  he  had  argued :  and 
not  even  the  visible  and  progressive  decay  of  his  wife 
and  child  could  force  the  stern  mind  of  Glendower  into 
accepting  those  wages  of  iniquity  which  he  knew  well 
were  only  offered  as  an  earnest  or  a  snare. 

There  is  a  royalty  in  extreme  suffering,  when  the 
mind  falls  not  with  the  fortunes,  which  no  hardihood 
of  vice  can  violate  unabashed.  Often  and  often, 
humbled  and  defeated,  through  all  his  dissimulation, 
was  Crauford  driven  from  the  presence  of  the  man  whom 
it  was  his  bitterest  punishment  to  fear  most  when  most 
he  affected  to  despise;  and  as  often,  recollecting  his 
powers,  and  fortifying  himself  in  his  experience  of 
human  frailty  when  sufficiently  tried,  did  he  return  to 
his  attempts.  He  waylaid  the  door  and  Avatched  the 
paths  of  his  intended  prey.  He  knew  that  the  mind 
which  even  best  repels  temptation  first  urged,  hath 
seldom  power  to  resist  the  same  suggestion,  if  daily, 
dropping,  unwearying,  presenting  itself  in  every  form, 
obtruded  in  every  hour,  losing  its  horror  by  custom, — 
and  finding  in  the  rebellious  bosom  itself  its  smoothest 
vizard  and  most  alluring  excuse.  And  it  was,  indeed,  a 
mighty  and  perilous  trial  to  Glendower,  when  rushing 
from  the  presence  of  his  wife  and  child,  when  fainting 
under  accumulated  evils,  when  almost  delirious  with 
sickening  and  heated  thought,  —  to  hear  at  each  prompt- 


78  THE    DBOWNED. 

ing  of  the  wrung  and  excited  nature,  eacli  heave  of  the 
black  fountain  that  in  no  mortal  breast  is  utterly  ex- 
hausted, one  smooth,  soft,  persuasive  voice  forever 
whispering,  "  Relief  !  "  —  relief,  certain,  utter,  instanta- 
neous! —  the  voice  of  one  pledged  never  to  relax  an  effort 
or  spare  a  pang,  by  a  danger  to  himself,  a  danger  of 
shame  and  death, — the  voice  of  one  who  never  spoke 
but  in  friendship  and  compassion,  profound  in  craft, 
and  a  very  sage  iu  the  disguises  with  wliich  language 
invests  deeds. 

But  Virtue  has  resources  buried  in  itscdf ,  which  we 
know  not,  till  the  invading  hour  calls  them  from  their 
retreats.  Surrounded  by  hosts  without,  and  when  nature 
itself,  turned  traitor,  is  its  most  deadly  enemy  within; 
it  assumes  a  new  and  a  superhuman  power,  which  is 
greater  than  nature  itself.  Whatever  be  its  creed, 
whatever  be  its  sect,  from  whatever  segment  of  the  globe 
its  orisons  arise,  virtue  is  God's  empire,  and  from  His 
throne  of  thrones  He  will  defend  it.  Though  cast  into 
the  distant  earth,  and  struggling  on  the  dim  arena  of  a 
human  heart,  all  things  above  are  spectators  of  its  con- 
flict, or  enlisted  in  its  cause.  The  angels  have  their 
charge  over  it,  the  banners  of  archangels  are  on  its  side ; 
and,  from  sphere  to  sphere,  through  the  illimitable 
ether,  and  round  the  impenetrable  darkness  at  the  feet  of 
God,  its  triumph  is  hymned  by  harps,  which  are  strung 
to  the  glories  of  the  Creator! 

One  evening,  when  Crauford  had  joined  Glendower  in 
his  solitary  wanderings,  the  dissembler  renewed  his 
attacks. 

"  I)ut  why  not,"  said  he,  "  accept  from  my  friendship 
what  to  my  benevolence  you  would  deny  1  I  couple  with 
my  offers,  my  prayers  rather,  no  conditions.  How  then 
do    you,    can   you,    reconcile    it   to    your    conscience. 


THE   DISOWNED.  79 

to  suffer  your  wife  and  child  to  perish  hefore  your 
eyes  1  " 

"  Man  —  man,"  said  Glendower,  "  tempt  me  no  more, 
—  let  them  die!  At  present  the  worst  is  death,  — what 
you  offer  me  is  dishonor. " 

"  Heavens!  — how  uncharitable  is  this!  Can  you  call 
the  mere  act  of  accepting  money  from  one  who  loves 
you,  dishonor? " 

"  It  is  in  vain  that  you  varnish  your  designs,"  said 
Glendower,  stopping  and  fixing  his  eyes  upon  him. 
"  Do  you  not  think  that  cunning  ever  betrays  itself  1 
In  a  thousand  words,  —  in  a  thousand  looks,  which  have 
escaped  you,  but  not  me,  I  know  that,  if  there  be  one 
being  on  this  earth  whom  you  hate,  and  would  injure, 
that  being  is  myself.  Nay,  start  not,  —  listen  to  me 
patiently.  I  have  sworn  that  it  is  the  last  opportunity 
you  shall  have.  I  will  not  subject  myself  to  further 
temptation :  I  am  now  sane ;  but  there  are  things  Avhich 
may  drive  me  mad,  and  in  madness  you  might  conquer. 
You  hate  me :  it  is  out  of  the  nature  of  earthly  things 
that  you  should  not.  But  even  were  it  otherwise,  do 
you  think  that  1  could  believe  you  would  come  from 
your  voluptuous  home  to  these  miserable  retreats ;  that, 
among  the  lairs  of  beggary  and  theft,  you  would  lie  in 
wait  to  allure  me  to  forsake  poverty,  without  a  stronger 
motive  than  love  for  one  who  affects  it  not  for  you  1  I 
know  you :  I  have  read  your  heart,  I  have  penetrated  into 
that  stronger  motive,  —  it  is  your  own  safety.  In  the 
system  of  atrocity  you  proposed  to  me,  you  are  the 
principal.  You  have  already  bared  to  me  enough  of 
the  extent  to  which  that  system  reaches,  to  convince 
me  that  a  single  miscreant,  however  ingenious,  cannot, 
unassisted,  support  it  with  impunity.  You  want 
help:    I  am   he   in   whom   you  have  dared  to  believe 


80  THE    DISOWNED. 

tliat  yon  could    find    it.     You  are  detected, — now  be 
undeceived!  " 

"  Is  it  so?  "  said  Crauford:  and  as  lie  saw  tliat  it  was 
no  longer  possible  to  feign,  the  poison  of  liis  heart  broke 
forth  in  its  full  venom.  The  fiend  rose  from  the  reptile, 
and  stood  exposed  in  its  natural  shape.  Keturning 
Glendower's  stern  but  lofty  gaze  with  an  eye  to  which 
all  evil  passions  lent  their  unholy  fire,  he  repeated,  "  Is 
it  so?—  then  you  are  more  penetrating  than  I  thought; 
but  it  is  indifferent  to  me.  It  was  for  your  sake,  not 
mine,  most  righteous  man,  that  I  wished  you  might 
have  a  disguise  to  satisfy  the  modesty  of  your  punctilios. 
It  is  all  one  to  Richard  Crauford  whether  you  go  blind- 
fold or  with  open  eyes  into  his  snare.  Go  you  must 
and  shall.  Ay,  frowns  will  not  awe  me.  You  have 
desired  the  truth;  you  shall  have  it.  You  are  right,  I 
hate  you,  —  hate  you  with  a  soul  whose  force  of  liatred 
you  cannot  dream  of.  Your  pride,  your  stubbornness, 
your  coldness  of  heart,  which  things  that  would  stir  the 
blood  of  beggars  cannot  warm,  your  icy  and  passionless 
virtue,  I  hate,  —  I  hate  all!  You  are  right  also,  most 
wise  inquisitor,  in  supposing  that  in  the  scheme  proposed 
to  you,  I  am  the  principal,  —  I  am!  You  were  to  be  the 
tool,  and  shall.  I  have  offered  you  mild  inducements, 
pleas  to  sootlie  the  technicalities  of  your  conscience:  you 
have  rejected  them, —  be  it  so.  Now  choose  between  my 
first  otfer  and  the  gibbet.  Ay,  the  gibbet!  That  night 
on  which  we  made  the  appointment,  which  shall  not  yet 
be  in  vain,  — on  that  night  you  stopped  me  in  the  street, 
you  demanded  money,  you  robbed  me;  T  Avill  swear, — 
I  will  prove  it.  Now  then  tremble,  man  of  morality, 
dupe  of  your  own  strength;  you  are  in  my  power, — 
tre.iiil)le!  Yet  in  mij  safety  is  your  escape,  —  T  am  gen- 
erous.    I  repeat  my  original  offer:  wealth,  as  great  as 


THE   DISOWNED,  81 

you  will  demand,  or  —  the  gibbet  —  the  gibbet;  do  I 
speak  loud  enough  ?  —  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"Poor  fool!"  said  Glendower,  laughing  scornfully, 
and  moving  away.  But  when  Crauford,  partly  in  mock- 
ery, partly  in  menace,  placed  his  hand  upon  Glendower's 
shoulder,  as  if  to  stop  him,  the  touch  seemed  to  change 
his  mood  from  scorn  to  fury,  —  turning  abruptly  round, 
he  seized  the  villain's  throat  with  a  giant's  strength,  and 
cried  out,  while  his  whole  countenance  worked  beneath 
the  tempestuous  wrath  within :  "  What  if  I  squeeze  out 
thy  poisonous  life  from  thee  this  moment!  "  —  and  then 
once  more  bursting  into  a  withering  laughter,  as  he  sur- 
veyed the  terror  which  he  had  excited,  he  added,  "No, 
no;  thou  art  too  vile!  "  —  and,  dashing  the  hypocrite 
against  the  wall  of  a  neighboring  house,  he  strode  away. 

Recovering  himself  slowly,  and  trembling  with  rage 
and  fear,  Crauford  gazed  round,  expecting  yet  to  find 
he  had  sported  too  far  with  the  passions  he  had  sought 
to  control.  When,  however,  he  had  fully  satisfied 
himself  that  Glendower  was  gone,  all  his  wrathful  and 
angry  feelings  returned  with  redoubled  force.  But  their 
most  biting  torture  was  the  consciousness  of  their  im- 
potence. For  after  the  first  paroxysm  of  rage  had  sub- 
sided, he  saw,  too  clearly,  that  his  threat  could  not  be 
executed  without  incurring  the  most  imminent  danger  of 
discovery.  High  as  his  character  stood,  it  was  possible 
that  no  charge  against  him  might  excite  suspicion ;  but 
a  word  might  cause  inquiry,  and  inquiry  would  be  ruin. 
Forced,  therefore,  to  stomach  his  failure,  his  indigna- 
tion, his  shame,  his  hatred,  and  his  vengeance,  his  own 
heart  became  a  punishment  almost  adequate  to  his  vices. 

"  But  my  foe  Avill  die,"  said  he,  clenching  his  fist  so 
firmly  that  the  nails  almost  brought  blood  from  the 
palm ;  "  he  will  starve,  famish ;  and  see  them  —  his  wife, 

VOL.  II.  —  6 


82  TIIK    DISOWNED. 

his  cliild  —  perish  first!  I  sliall  have  my  triumph, 
thoi;gh  I  shall  not  witness  it!  But  now,  away  to  my 
villa:  there,  at  least,  will  be  some  one  whom  I  can 
mock,  and  beat,  aiid  trample,  if  I  will!  Would  —  wotUd 
—  ivould  that  I 'Were  that  very  man,  destitute  as  he  is! 
His  neck,  at  least,  is  safe:  if  he  dies,  it  will  not  be 
upon  the  gallows,  nor  among  the  hootings  of  the  mob! 
Oh,  horror!  horror!  What  are  my  villa,  my  wine,  my 
women,  with  that  black  thought,  ever  following  me 
like  a  shadow?  Who  —  who,  while  an  avalanche  is 
sailing  over  him,  who  would  sit  down  to  feast?  " 

Leaving  this  man  to  shun  or  be  overtaken  by  fate, 
we  return  to  Glendower.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
Crauford  visited  him  no  more;  and,  indeed,  shortly 
afterwards  Glendower  again  changed  his  home.  But 
every  day  and  every  hour  brought  new  strength  to  the 
disease  which  was  creeping  and  burning  through  the 
veins  of  the  devoted  wife;  and  Glendower,  who  saw  on 
earth  nothing  before  them  but  a  jail,  from  which  as  yet 
they  had  been  miraculously  delivered,  repined  not  as  he 
belield  her  approach  to  a  gentler  and  benigner  home. 
Often  he  sat,  as  she  was  bending  over  their  child,  and 
gazed  upon  her  cheek  with  an  insane  and  fearful  joy  at 
the  characters  which  consumption  had  there  engraved; 
but  when  she  turned  towards  him  her  fond  eyes  (those 
deep  wells  of  love,  in  which  truth  lay  hid,  and  whicli 
neither  languor  nor  disease  could  exhaust),  the  un- 
natural hardness  of  his  heart  melted  away,  and  he  would 
rush  froni  the  house,  to  give  vent  to  an  agony  against 
whicli  fortitude  and  manhood  were  in  vain. 

There  was  no  hope  for  their  distress,  ilis  wife  had, 
unknown  to  Glendower  (for  she  dreaded  his  pride), 
written  several  times  to  a  relation  who  tliougli  distant 
was  still  the  nearest  in  blood  which  fate  had  spared  her, 


THE   DISOWNED.  83 

but  ineffectually ;  the  scions  of  a  large  and  illegitimate 
family,  which  surrounded  him,  utterly  prevented  the 
success,  and  generally  interrupted  the  application  of  any 
claimant  on  his  riches  but  themselves.  Glendower, 
whose  temper  had  ever  kept  him  aloof  from  all  but  the 
commonest  acquaintances,  knew  no  human  being  to 
apply  to.  Utterly  unable  to  avail  himself  of  the  mine 
which  his  knowledge  and  talents  should  have  proved, 
sick,  and  despondent  at  heart,  and  debarred  by  the  lofti- 
ness of  honor,  or  rather  principle  that  nothing  could 
quell,  from  any  unlawful  means  of  earning  bread,  which 
to  most  minds  would  have  been  rendered  excusable  by 
the  urgency  of  nature,  Glendower  marked  the  days  drag 
on  in  dull  and  protracted  despair,  and  envied  every 
corpse  that  he  saw  1)orne  to  the  asylum  in  which  all 
earth's  hopes  seemed  centred  and  confined. 


84  THE    DISOW.XED. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

For  ours  was  uot  like  earthly  love. 
And  must  this  parting  he  our  very  last  1 
No !     I  shall  love  thee  still  wiien  death  itself  is  past. 

Hushed  were  his  Gertrude's  lips !  but  still  tlieir  hlaud 

And  beautiful  expression  seemed  to  melt 

With  love  that  could  not  die !  and  still  his  hand 

She  presses  to  the  heart,  no  more  that  felt. 

Ah,  heart !  where  once  each  fond  affection  dwelt. 

Campbell. 

"I  WONDER,"  said  Mr.  Brown  to  liimself,  as  lie  spurred 
his  shaggy  pony  to  a  speed  very  unusual  to  the  steady 
habits  of  either  party,  —  "I  wonder  where  I  shall  iiiul 
him.  I  would  not  for  the  late  Lady  Waddilove's  hest 
diamond  cross  have  anybody  forestall  me  in  the  news. 
To  think  of  my  young  master  dying  so  soon  after  my 
last  visit,  or  rather  my  last  visit  but  one,  —  and  to  think 
of  the  old  gentleman  taking  on  so,  and  raving  about  his 
injustice  to  the  rightful  possessor,  and  saying  that  he  is 
justly  punished,  and  asking  me  so  eagerly  if  I  could  dis- 
cover the  retreat  of  the  late  squire,  and  believing  me 
so  implicitly  when  T  undertook  to  do  it,  and  giving  me 
this  letter!  "  And  here  Mr.  Brown  wistfully  examined 
an  epistle  sealed  with  black  Avax,  peeping  into  the  cor- 
ners, which  irritated  rather  than  satisfied  his  curiosity, 
—  "I  wonder  what  the  old  gentleman  says  in  it;  I  sup- 
pose he  will,  of  course,  give  up  the  estate  and  house. 
Let  me  see,  —  that  long  picture  gallery,  just  l)uilt,  will 
at  all  events  want  furnishing.     That  would  be  a  famous 


THE   DISOWNED.  85 

opportunity  to  get  rid  of  the  Indian  jars  and  the  sofas 
and  the  great  Turkey  carpet.  How  lucky  that  I  should 
just  have  come  in  time  to  get  the  letter.  But  let  me 
consider  how  I  shall  find  out  ?  —  an  advertisement  in 
the  paper  1  Ah !  that 's  the  plan.  '  Algernon  Mordaunt, 
Esq.:  something  greatly  to  his  advantage, — apply  to 
Mr.  Brown,  etc'  Ah!  that  will  do  well,  very  well. 
The  Turkey  carpet  won't  be  quite  long  enough.  I 
wish  I  had  discovered  Mr.  Mordaunt's  address  before, 
and  lent  him  some  money  during  the  young  gentleman's 
life ;  it  would  have  seemed  more  generous.  However, 
I  can  offer  it  now,  before  I  show  the  letter.  Bless  me, 
it's  getting  dark.  Come,  Dobbin,  ye-up!  "  Such 
were  the  meditations  of  the  faithful  friend  of  the  late 
Lady  Waddilove,  as  he  hastened  to  London,  charged 
witli  the  task  of  discovering  Mordaunt,  and  with  the 
delivery  of  the  following  epistle:  — 

You  are  now,  sir,  the  heir  to  that  property  which,  some 
years  ago,  passed  from  your  hands  into  mine.  My  son,  for 
whom  alone  wealth,  or,  I  may  say  life,  was  valuable  to  me,  is 
no  more.  I  onlj^,  an  old,  childless  man,  stand  between  you 
and  the  estates  of  Mordaunt.  Do  not  wait  for  my  death  to 
enjoy  them.  I  cannot  live  here,  where  everything  reminds 
me  of  ray  great  and  irreparable  loss.  I  shall  remove  next 
month  into  another  home.  Consider  this,  then,  as  once  more 
j'ours.  The  house,  I  believe,  you  will  find  not  disimproved 
by  my  alterations  ;  the  mortgages  on  the  estate  have  been 
paid  off ;  the  former  rental  you  will  perhaps  allow  my  steward 
to  account  to  you  for,  and,  after  my  death,  the  present  one 
will  be  yours.  I  am  iid'ormed  that  you  are  a  proud  man,  and 
not  likely  to  receive  favors.  Be  it  so,  sir!  —  it  is  no  favor  you 
will  receive,  but  justice.  There  are  circumstances  connected 
with  my  treaty  with  yotu-  father,  which  have  of  late  vexed  my 
conscience,  —  and  conscience,  sir,  must  be  satisfied  at  any  loss 
But  we  shall  meet,  perhaps,  and  talk  over  the  past ;  at  present 


86  TITK   DISOWNED. 

I  will  not  enlarge  on  it.  If  you  have  suffered  by  me,  I  am 
sutlicieiitly  i)unislied,  and  my  only  hope  is  to  repair  your 
losses.  —  1  am,  etc., 

H.  Vavasour  Mordaunt. 

Such  was  the  letter,  so  important  to  Mordaunt,  with 
which  our  worthy  friend  was  charged.  P)Owed  to  the 
dust  as  Vavasour  Avas  by  the  loss  of  his  son,  and  open 
to  conscience  as  affliction  had  made  him,  he  had  lived 
too  long  for  effect,  not  to  be  susceptible  to  its  influence, 
even  to  the  last.  Amidst  all  his  grief,  and  it  was  in- 
tense, there  were  some  Avhispers  of  self-exaltation,  at  the 
thought  of  the  eclat  which  his  generosity  and  abdication 
would  excite;  and,  with  true  worldly  morality,  the 
hoped-for  plaudits  of  others  gave  a  triumph,  rather  than 
humiliation,  to  his  reconcilement  with  himself. 

To  say  truth,  there  were  indeed  circumstances  con- 
nected with  his  treaty  with  Mordaimt's  father,  calculated 
to  vex  his  conscience.  He  knew  that  he  had  not  only 
taken  great  advantage  of  Mr.  Mordaunt's  distress,  but 
that,  at  his  instigation,  a  paper  which  could  forever  have 
prevented  Mr.  Mordaunt's  sale  of  the  property,  had  been 
destroyed.  These  circumstances,  during  the  life  of  his 
son,  he  had  endeavored  to  forget  or  to  palliate.  But 
grief  is  rarely  deaf  to  remorse;  and  at  the  death  of 
that  idolized  son,  the  voice  at  his  heart  grew  imperious, 
and  he  lost  the  power,  in  losing  the  motive,  of  reason- 
ing it  away. 

Mr.  Brown's  advertisement  was  unanswered;  and 
with  the  zeal  and  patience  of  the  Christian  proselyte's 
tribe  and  calling,  the  good  man  commenced,  in  person, 
a  most  elaborate  and  painstaking  research.  For  a  long 
time,  his  endeavors  were  so  ineffectual,  that  Mr.  Brown, 
in  despair,  disposed  of  the  two  Indian  jars  for  half  their 
value,  and  heaved  a  despondent  sigh  whenever  he  saw 


THE   DISOWNED.  ■  87 

the  great  Turkey  carpet  rolled  up  in  his  warehouse  with 
as  much  obstinacy  as  if  it  never  meant  to  unroll  itself 
again. 

At  last,  however,  by  dint  of  indefatigable  and  minute 
investigation,  he  ascertained  that  the  object  of  his  search 
had  resided  in  London,  under  a  feigned  name;  from  lodg- 
ing to  lodging,  and  corner  to  corner,  he  tracked  him,  till 
at  length  he  made  himself  master  of  Mordaunt's  present 
retreat,  A  joyful  look  did  Mr.  Brown  cast  at  the  great 
Turkey  carpet,  as  he  passed  by  it,  on  his  way  to  his 
street-door,  on  the  morning  of  his  intended  visit  to  Mor- 
daunt.  "  It  is  a  fine  thing  to  have  a  good  heart,"  said 
he,  in  the  true  style  of  Sir  Christopher  Findlater,  and  he 
again  eyed  the  Turkey  carpet.  "  I  really  feel  quite 
happy  at  the  thought  of  the  pleasure  T  shall  give !  " 

After  a  walk  through  as  many  obscure  and  filthy 
wynds  and  lanes  and  alleys  and  courts  as  ever  were 
threaded  by  some  humble  fugitive  from  justice,  the 
patient  Morris  came  to  a  sort  of  court  situated  among 
the  miserable  hovels  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Tower,  He 
paused,  wonderingly,  at  a  dwelling  in  Avhich  every  win- 
dow was  broken,  and  where  the  tiles,  torn  from  the  roof, 
lay  scattered  in  forlorn  confusion  beside  the  door :  where 
the  dingy  bricks  looked  crumbling  away  from  very  age 
and  rottenness,  and  the  fabric,  which  was  of  great  an- 
tiquity, seemed  so  rocking  and  infirm  that  the  eye 
looked  upon  its  distorted  and  overhanging  position  with 
a  sensation  of  pain  and  dread ;  where  the  very  rats  had 
deserted  their  loathsome  cells,  from  the  insecurity  of 
their  tenure,  and  the  ragged  mothers  of  the  abject  neigh- 
borhood forbade  their  brawling  children  to  wander  under 
the  threatening  walls,  lest  they  should  keep  the  promise 
of  their  mouldering  aspect,  and,  falling,  bare  to  the 
obstructed   and   sickly  day  the  secrets  of  their  prison- 


88  THE   DISOWNED. 

house.  Girt  witli  the  foul  and  reeking  lairs  of  that 
extreme  destitution  which  necessity  urges  irresistibly 
into  guilt,  and  excluded  by  filthy  alleys,  and  an  eternal 
atmosphere  of  smoke  and  rank  vapor,  from  the  blessed 
sun  and  the  pure  air  of  heaven,  the  miserable  mansion 
seemed  set  apart  for  every  disease  to  couch  within:  too 
perilous  even  for  the  hunted  criminal,  —  too  dreary  even 
for  the  beggar  to  prefer  it  to  the  bare  hedge,  or  the  inhos- 
pitable porch  beneath  whose  mockery  of  shelter  the  frosts 
of  winter  had  so  often  numbed  him  into  sleep. 

Thrice  did  the  heavy  and  silver-headed  cane  of  Mr. 
Brown  resound  upon  the  door,  over  which  was  a  curious 
carving  of  a  lion  dormant,  and  a  date,  of  which  only  the 
two  numbers  15  were  discernible.  Roused  by  a  note  so 
unusual,  and  an  apparition  so  unwontedly  smug  as  the 
worthy  Morris,  a  whole  legion  of  dingy  and  smoke- 
dried  brats  came  trooping  from  the  surrounding  huts, 
and  with  many  an  elvish  cry  and  strange  oath  and 
cabalistic  word,  which  thrilled  the  respectable  marrow  of 
Mr.  Brown,  they  collected  in  a  gaping  and,  to  his  alarmed 
eye,  a  menacing  group,  as  near  to  the  house  as  their  fears 
and  parents  would  permit  them. 

"It  is  very  dangerous,"  thought  Mr.  Brown,  looking 
shiveringly  up  at  the  hanging  and  tottering  roof,  "  and 
very  appalling,"  as  he  turned  to  the  ragged  crowd  of 
infant  reprobates  which  began  with  every  moment  to 
increase.  At  last  he  summoned  courage,  and  inquired, 
in  a  tone  half  soothing  and  half  dignified,  if  they  coukl 
inform  him  how  to  ol)tain  admittance,  or  how  to  arouse 
the  inhabitants. 

An  old  crone,  leaning  out  of  an  opposite  Avindow, 
with  matted  hair  hanging  over  a  begrimed  and  shriv- 
elled countenance,  made  answer.  "  Xo  one,"  she  said, 
in  her  peculiar  dialect,  which  the  worthy  man  scarcely 


THE   DISOWNED.  89 

comprehended,  "  lived  there,  or  had  done  so  for  years;  " 
but  Brown  knew  better:  and  while  he  was  asserting  the 
fact,  a  girl  put  her  head  out  of  another  hovel,  and  said 
that  she  had  sometimes  seen  at  the  dusk  of  the  evening, 
a  man  leave  the  house,  but  whether  any  one  else  lived 
in  it,  she  could  not  tell.  Again  Mr.  Brown  sounded 
an  alarm,  but  no  answer  came  forth,  and  in  great  fear 
and  trembling,  he  applied  violent  hands  to  the  door. 
It  required  but  little  force;  it  gave  way:  he  entered; 
and  jeahjus  of  the  entrance  of  the  mob  without,  reclosed 
and  barred,  as  well  as  he  was  able,  the  shattered  door. 
The  house  was  unnaturally  large  for  the  neighborhood, 
and  Brown  was  in  doubt  whether  first  to  ascend  a  broken 
and  perilous  staircase ,  or  search  the  rooms  below :  he 
decided  on  the  latter;  he  found  no  one,  and  with  a 
misgiving  heart,  which  nothing  but  the  recollection  of 
the  great  Turkey  carpet  could  have  inspired,  he  ascended 
the  quaking  steps.  All  Avas  silent.  But  a  door  was 
unclosed.  He  entered,  and  saw  the  object  of  his  search 
before  him. 

Over  a  pallet  bent  a  form  on  which,  though  youth 
seemed  withered,  and  even  pride  broken,  the  unconquer- 
able soul  left  somewhat  of  grace  and  of  glory,  that  sus- 
tained the  beholder's  remembrance  of  better  days,  —  a 
child  in  its  first  infancy  knelt  on  the  nearer  side  of  the 
bed,  with  clasped  hands,  and  vacant  eyes  that  turned 
towards  the  intruder  with  a  listless  and  lack-histre  gaze. 
But  Glendower,  or  rather  Mordaunt,  as  he  bent  over  the 
pallet,  spoke  not,  moved  not;  his  eyes  were  riveted  on 
one  object;  his  heart  seemed  turned  into  stone,  and  his 
veins  curdled  into  ice.  Awed  and  chilled  by  the  breath- 
ing desolation  of  the  spot.  Brown  approached  and 
spoke,  he  scarcely  knew  Avhat.  "  You  are,"  he  concluded 
his  address,  "  the  master  of  Mordaunt  Court;"  and  he 


90  THE   DISOWNED. 

placed  the  letter  in  the  liaiuls   of  the  person  he  thus 
greeted. 

"  Awake,  hear  me!  "  cried  Algernon  to  Isabel,  as  she 
lay  extended  on  the  couch;  and  the  messenger  of  glad 
tidings,  for  the  first  time  seeing  her  countenance,  shud- 
dered, and  knew  that  he  was  in  the  chamber  of  death. 

"Awake,  my  own,  own  love!  Happy  days  are  in 
store  for  us  yet:  our  misery  is  past;  you  will  live,  live 
to  bless  me  in  riches,  as  you  have  done  in  want." 

Isabel  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  a  smile,  sweet, 
comforting,  and  full  of  love,  passed  the  lips  which  were 
about  to  close  forever.  "Thank  Heaven,"  she  mur- 
mured, "  for  your  dear  sake.  It  is  pleasant  to  die  now, 
and  thus  !  "  and  she  placed  the  hand  that  was  clasped  in 
her  relaxing  and  wan  fingers,  within  the  bosom  which 
had  been,  for  anguished  and  hopeless  years,  his  asylum 
and  refuge,  and  which  now,  when  fortune  changed,  as 
if  it  had  only  breathed  in  comfort  to  his  alllictions,  was 
for  the  first  time,  and  forever,  to  be  cold, —  cold  even  to 
him! 

"  You  will  live,  — you  will  live,"  cried  Mordaunt,  in 
■wild  and  incredulous  despair,  —  "  in  mercy  live!  You, 
who  have  been  my  angel  of  hope,  do  not,  —  0  God,  0 
God !  do  not  desert  me  now !  " 

l>ut  that  faithful  and  loving  heart  was  already  deaf  to 
his  voice,  and  the  film  gn;w  darkening  and  rapidly  over 
ithe  eye,  wliich  still,  with  undying  fondness,  sought 
him  out  through  the  shade  and  agony  of  death.  Sense 
and  consciousness  were  gone,  and  dim  and  confused 
images  whirled  round  her  soul,  struggling  a  little 
moment  before  they  sank  into  the  depth  and  silence 
where  the  past  lies  buried.  But  still  mindful  of  him, 
and  grasping,  as  it  were,  at  his  remembrance,  she 
clasped,  closer  and  closer,  the  icy  hand  which  she  held,  to 


THE   DISOWNED.  91 

her  breast.  "  Your  hand  is  cohl,  dearest,  —  it  is  cold," 
said  she,  faintly,  "  but  I  will  warm  it  here  !  "  And  so 
her  spirit  passed  away,  and  Mordaiuit  felt  afterwards,  in 
a  lone  and  surviving  pilgrimage,  that  her  last  thought 
had  been  kindness  to  him,  and  her  last  act  had  spoken 
forgetfulness  even  of  death,  in  the  tenderness  of  love! 


92  THE   DISOWNED. 

CHAPTER  LIX. 

Change  and  time  take  together  their  flight.  —  Golden  Violet. 

One  evening  in  autumn,  ahout  three  years  after  the 
date  of  our  last  chapter,  a  stranger  on  horseback,  in  deep 
mourning,    dismounted   at   the    door   of    "  the    Golden 

Fleece,"  in  the  memorable  town  of  W .     He  walked 

into  the  tap-room  and  asked  for  a  private  apartment  and 
accommodation  for  the  night.  The  landlady,  grown 
considerably  plumper  than  when  we  first  made  her  ac- 
quaintance, just  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  the  stranger's  face, 
and  summoning  a  short,  stout  man  (formerly  the  waiter, 
now  the  second  helpmate  of  the  comely  hostess),  desired 
him,  in  a  tone  which  partook  somewhat  more  of  the  au- 
thority indicative  of  their  former  relative  situations  than 
of  the  obedience  which  should  have  characterized  their 
present,  to  "show  the  gentleman  to  the  Griffin,  No. 
Four." 

The  stranger  smiled  as  the  sound  greeted  his  ears, 
and  he  followed  not  so  much  the  host  as  the  hostess's 
spouse  into  the  apartment  thus  designated.  A  young 
lady,  who  some  eight  years  ago  little  thought  that  she 
should  still  be  in  a  state  of  single  blessedness,  and  Avho 
always  honored  with  an  attentive  eye  the  stray  travellers 
who,  from  their  youth,  loneliness,  or  that  inefTa1)le  air 
which  usually  designates  the  unmarried  man,  might  be 
in  the  same  solitary  state  of  life,  turned  to  the  landlady, 
and  said,  — 

"  Mother,  did  you  observe  what  a  handsome  gentleman 
that  was  ? " 


THE    DISOWNED.  93 

"ISTo,"  replied  the  landlady;  "I  only  observed  that 
he  brought  no  servant." 

"  1  wonder,"  said  the  daughter,  "  if  he  is  in  the  army; 
he  has  a  military  air!  " 

"  I  suppose  he  has  dined,"  muttered  the  landlady  to 
herself,  looking  towards  the  larder. 

"  Have  you  seen  Squire  Mordaunt  within  a  short 
period  of  time?"  asked,  somewhat  abruptly,  a  little, 
thick-set  man,  who  was  enjoying  his  pipe  and  negus  in 
a  sociable  way  at  the  window -seat.  The  characteristics 
of  this  personage  were  a  spruce  wig,  a  bottle  nose,  an 
elevated  eyebrow,  a  snuff-colored  skin  and  coat,  and  an 
air  of  that  consequential  self-respect  which  distinguishes 
the  philosopher  who  agrees  with  the  Prench  sage,  and 
sees  "  no  reason  in  the  world  why  a  man  should  not 
esteem  himself. " 

"No,  indeed,  Mr.  Bossolton,"  returned  the  landlady; 
"  but  I  suppose  that,  as  he  is  now  in  the  Parliament 
House,  he  will  live  less  retired.  It  is  a  pity  that  the 
inside  of  that  noble  old  hall  of  his  should  not  be  more 
seen,  — and  after  all  the  old  gentleman's  improvements, 
too!  They  say  that  the  estate  now,  since  the  mortgages 
were  paid  off,  is  above  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year, 
clear!" 

"  And  if  I  am  not  induced  into  an  er?or,"  rejoined  Mr. 
Bossolton,  refilling  his  pipe,  "old  Vavasour  left  a  great 
sum  of  ready  money  besides,  which  must  have  been  in 
aid,  and  an  assistance  and  an  advantage,  mark  me. 
Mistress  Merrylack,  to  the  owner  of  Mordaunt  Hall, 
that  has  escaped  the  calculation  of  your  faculty,  and  tlie 
—  and  the  —  faculty  of  your  calculation !  " 

"You  mistake,  Mr.  Boss,"  as,  in  the  friendliness  of 
diminutives,  Mrs.  Merrylack  sometimes  styled  the  gran- 
diloquent practitioner,  —  "you  mistake;  the  old  gentle- 


94  THE   DISOWNED. 

man  left  all  his  ready  money  in  two  bequests :  the  one 

to  the  College  of ,  in  the  university  of  Cambridge, 

and  the  other  to  a  hospital  in  London.  I  remember 
tlie  very  words  of  the  will;  they  ran  thus,  Mr.  Boss: 
'And  whereas    my    beloved  son,  had   he   lived,    would 

have    been   a  member    of   the  College  of   ,   in  the 

university  of  Cambridge,  which  he  would  have  adorned 
by  his  genius,  learning,  youthful  virtue,  and  the  various 
qualities  which  did  equal  honor  to  his  head  and  lieaxt, 
and  would  have  rendered  him  alike  distinguished  as  the 
scholar  and  the  Christian,  —  I  do  devise  and  bequeath 
the  sum  of  thirty-seven  thousand  pounds  sterling,  now  in 
the  English  fuuds,'  etc.,  etc.;  and  then  follows  the 
manner  in  which  he  will  have  his  charity  vested  and 
bestowed,  and  all  about  the  prize  which  shall  be  forever 
designated  and  termed  '  The  Vavasour  Prize,'  and  what 
shall  be  the  words  of  the  Latin  speech  which  shall  be 
spoken  when  the  said  prize  shall  be  delivered,  and  a 
great  deal  more  to  that  eflfect.  So,  then,  he  passes  to  the 
other  legacy,  of  exactly  the  same  sum,  to  the  hospital 

usually  called  and  styled ,  in  the  city  of  London, 

and  says,  *  And  whereas  we  are  assured  by  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  which,  in  these  days  of  blasphemy  and  sedi- 
tion, it  becomes  every  true  Briton  and  member  of  the 
Established  Church  to  support,  that  "  charity  doth  cover 
a  multitude  of  sins,"  —  so  I  do  give  and  devise,'  etc., 
etc.,  'to  be  forever  termed  in  the  deeds,'  etc.,  etc., 
'of  the  said  hospital,  "The  Vavasour  Charity;"  and 
always  provided  that,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  of 
my  death,  a  sermon  shall  be  preached  in  the  chapel 
attached  to  the  said  hospital,  by  a  clergyman  of  the 
Established  Church,  on  any  text  appropriate  to  the  day 
and  deed  so  commemorated.'  But  the  conclusion  is 
most    beautiful,    Mr.    Bossolton:    '  And    now    having 


THE   DISOWNED.  95 

discharged  my  duties,  to  the  best  of  my  humble  ability, 
to  my  God,  my  king,  and  my  country,  and  dying  in  the 
full  belief  of  the  Protestant  Church,  as  by  law  estab- 
lished, I  do  set  my  hand  and  seal,'  etc.,  etc." 

"  A  very  pleasing  and  charitable  and  devout  and 
virtuous  testament  or  will.  Mistress  Merrylack,"  said 
Mr.  Bossolton ;  "  and  in  a  time  when  anarchy  with 
gigantic  strides  does  devastate  and  devour  and  harm 
the  good  old  customs  of  our  ancestors  and  forefathers, 
and  tramples  with  its  poisonous  breath  the  Magna 
Charta,  and  the  glorious  Revolution,  it  is  beautiful,  ay, 
and  sweet,  —  mark  you,  Mrs.  Merrylack,  to  behold  a 
gentleman  of  the  aristocratic  classes,  or  grades,  support- 
ing the  institutions  of  his  country  Avith  such  remarkable 
energy  of  sentiments,  and  with  —  and  with  —  Mistress 
Merrylack  —  with  sentiments  of  such  remarkable 
energy. " 

"Pray,"  said  the  daughter,  adjusting  her  ringlets  by 
a  little  glass  which  hung  over  the  tap,  "  how  long  has 
Mr.  Mordaunt's  lady  been  dead?  " 

"Oh!  she  died  just  before  the  squire  came  to  the 
property,"  quoth  tlie  mother.  "  Poor  thing,  —  she  was 
so  pretty.  I  am  sure  I  cried  for  a  whole  hour  when  I 
heard  it!  T  think  it  was  three  years  last  month  when  it 
happened.  Old  ]\Ir.  Vavasour  died  about  two  months 
afterwards. " 

"  The  afflicted  husband,"  said  Mr.  Bossolton,  who  was 
the  victim  of  a  most  fiery  Mrs.  Boss  at  home,  "  went 
into  foreign  lands  or  parts,  or,  as  it  is  vulgarly  termed, 
the  Continent,  immediately  after  an  event  or  occurrence 
so  fatal  to  the  cup  of  his  prosperity  and  the  sunshine 
of  his  enjoyment,  —  did  he  not,  Mrs.   Merrylack?  " 

"  He  did.  And  you  know,  ]\[r.  Boss,  he  only  returned 
about  six  months  ago. " 


96  THE   DISOWNED. 

"And  of  what  Ijorough,  or  burgli,  or  town,  or  city, 
is  he  the  member  and  representative'?"  asked  j\Ir. 
Jeremiah  Bossolton,  putting  another  lump  of  sugar  into 
his  negus.  "I  have  heard,  it  is  true,  but  my  memory 
is  short;  and  in  the  multitude  and  multifariousness  of 
my  professional  engagements,  I  am  often  led  into  a  for- 
getfulness  of  matters  less  important  in  their  variety,  and 
less  —  less  various  in  their  importance. " 

"  Why,"  answered  Mrs.  Merrylack,  "  somehow  or 
other,  I  quite  forget  too ;  but  it  is  some  distant  borough. 
The  gentleman  wanted  him  to  stand  for  the  county,  but 
he  would  not  hear  of  it;  perhaps  he  did  not  like  the 
publicity  of  the  thing,  for  he  is  mighty  reserved." 

"Proud,  haughty,  arrogant,  and  assumptions!"  said 
Mr.   Bossolton,  with  a  puff  of  unusual  length. 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  the  daugliter  (young  people  are 
always  the  first  to  defend),  "  I  'm  sure  he  's  not  proud, 
—  he  does  a  mort  of  good,  and  has  the  sweetest  smile 
possible!  I  wonder  if  he  '11  marry  again!  He  is  very 
young  yet,  not  above  two  or  three  and  thirty."  (The 
kind  damsel  would  not  have  thought  two  or  three  and 
thirty  very  young  some  years  ago;  but  we  grow  won- 
derfully indulgent  to  the  age  of  other  people  as  we  grow 
older  ourselves!) 

"And  what  an  eye  he  has!"  said  the  landlady. 
"Well,  for  my  part  — but,  bless  me.  Here  John, 
John,  John,— waiter  — husband,!  mean:  here 's  a  car- 
riage and  four  at  the  door.  Lizzy,  dear,  is  my  cap 
right?" 

And  mother,  daughter,  and  husband,  all  flocked, 
charged  with  simper,  courtesy,  and  bow,  to  receive 
their  expected  guests.  With  a  disappointment  which 
we  who  keep  not  inns  can  but  very  imperfectly  con- 
ceive, the   trio   beheld  a  single  personage  —  a  valet  — 


THE   DISOWNED.  97 

descend  from  the  box,  open  the  carriage-door  and  take 
out  —  a  desk!  Of  all  things  human,  male  or  female, 
the  said  carriage  was  utterly  empty. 

The  valet  bustled  up  to  the  landlady :  "  My  master  's 
here,  ma'am,  I  think,  —  rode  on  before!  " 

"And  Avho  is  your  master!"  asked  Mrs.  Merry  lack, 
■ —  a  thrill  of  alarm,  and  the  thought  of  No.  Four,  coming 
across  her  at  the  same  time. 

"  Who !  "  said  the  valet,  rubbing  his  hands,  —  "  who  ? 
—  why,  Clarence  Talbot  Linden,  Esq.,  of  Scarsdale 
Park,  county  of  York,  late  Secretary  of  Legation  at  the 

court  of  ,  now   M.  P. ,   and    one   of  his   Majesty's 

Under  Secretaries  of  State." 

"Mercy  upon  us!"  cried  the  astounded  landlady, 
"and  Xo.  Four,  only  think  of  it!  Run,  John,  — John 
run;  light  a  fire  (the  night's  cold,  I  think)  in  the 
Elephant,  Number  Sixteen ;  beg  the  gentleman's  par- 
don,—  say  it  was  occupied  till  now;  ask  what  he'll 
have  for  dinner,  — fish,  flesh,  fowl,  steaks,  joints,  chops, 
tarts,  —  or,  if  it 's  too  late  (but  it 's  quite  early  yet,  — 
you  may  put  back  the  day  an  hour  or  so),  ask  what  he  '11 
have  for  supper!  Run,  John,  run;  what  's  the  oaf  stay- 
ing for,  — run,  I  tell  you!  Pray,  sir,  walk  in,"  to  the 
valet,  our  old  friend  Mr.  Harrison,  —  "  you'll  be  hungry 
after  your  journey,  I  think;   no  ceremony,  I  beg. '^ 

"  He  's  not  so  handsome  as  his  master,"  said  Miss 
Elizabeth,  glancing  at  Harrison  discontentedly,  —  "  but 
he  does  not  look  like  a  married  man,  somehow.  I  '11 
just  step  upstairs  and  change  my  cap;  it  would  be  but 
civil  if  the  gentleman's  gentleman  sups  with  us." 

Meanwhile  Clarence,  having  been  left  alone  in  the 
quiet  enjoyment  of  No.  Four,  had  examined  the  little 
apartment  with  an  interest  not  altogether  unmingled 
Avith  painful  reflections.     There  are  few  persons,  how- 


98  THE   DISOWNED. 

ever  fortunate,  who  can  look  back  to  eight  years  of  their 
life,  and  not  feel  somewhat  of  disappointment  in  the 
retrospect;  few  persons  whose  fortunes  the  world  envy, 
to  whom  the  token  of  past  time,  suddenly  obtruded  on 
their  remembrance,  does  not  awaken  hopes  destroyed, 
and  wishes  deceived,  which  that  world  has  never  known. 
We  tell  our  triumphs  to  the  crowd,  but  our  own  hearts 
are  the  sole  conlidants  of  our  sorrows.  "Twice,"  said 
Clarence  to  himself,  — "  twice  before  have  I  been  in 
this  humble  room:  the  first  was  when,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  I  was  just  launched  into  the  Avorld,  — a  vessel 
which  had  for  its  only  hope  the  motto  of  the  chivalrous 
Sydney,— 

'  Aiit  viam  inveniam,  aut  fjxciam.' ' 

yet,  humble  and  nameless  as  I  was,  how  well  I  can  recall 
the  exaggerated  ambition,  nay,  the  certainty  of  success, 
as  well  as  its  desire,  which  then  burned  within  me.  I 
smile  now  at  the  overweening  vanity  of  those  hopes,  — ■ 
some,  indeed,  realized,  but  how  many  nipped  and  with- 
ered forever, —  seeds,  of  which  a  few  fell  upon  rich 
ground,  and  prospered,  but  of  which  how  far  the  greater 
number  were  scattered,  some  upon  the  wayside,  and  were 
devoured  by  immediate  cares,  some  on  stony  places,  and 
when  the  sun  of  manhood  was  up,  they  were  scorched, 
and  because  they  had  no  root,  withered  away,  and  some 
among  thorns,  and  the  thorns  sprang  up  and  choked 
them.  I  am  noAV  rich,  honored,  high  in  the  favor  of 
courts,  and  not  altogether  unknown  or  iniesteemed  arhitrio 
populariH  aurce :  and  yet  I  almost  think  I  was  happier 
when,  in  that  flush  of  youth  and  inexperience,  I  looked 
forth  into  the  wide  world,  and  imagined  that  from  every 
comer  would  spring  up  a  triumph  for  my  vanity,  or  an 

1  I  will  either  find  my  wa}',  or  —  make  it. 


THE   DISOWNED.  99 

object  for  my  affections.  The  next  time  I  stood  in  this 
little  spot,  1  was  no  longer  the  dependent  of  a  precarious 
charity,  or  the  idle  adventurer  who  had  no  stepping- 
stone  but  his  ambition.  I  was  then  just  declared  the 
heir  of  wealth,  which  I  could  not  rationally  have  hoped 
for  five  years  before,  and  which  was  in  itself  sufficient 
to  satisfy  the  aspirings  of  ordinary  men.  But  I  was 
corroded  with  anxieties  for  the  object  of  my  love,  and 
regret  for  the  friend  whom  I  had  lost:  perhaps  the 
eagerness  of  my  heart  for  the  one  rendered  me,  for  the 
moment,  too  little  mindful  of  the  other;  but,  in  after 
years,  memory  took  ample  atonement  for  that  temporary 
suspension  of  lier  duties.  How  often  have  I  recalled, 
in  this  world  of  cold  ties  and  false  hearts,  that  true  and 
generous  friend,  from  whose  lessons  my  mind  took  im- 
provement, and  from  whose  warnings,  example;  who 
was  to  me,  living,  a  father,  and  from  whose  generosity, 
whatever  worldly  advantages  I  have  enjoyed,  or  distinc- 
tions I  have  gained,  are  derived!  Then,  I  was  going 
with  a  torn,  yet  credulous  heart,  to  pour  forth  my  secret 
and  my  passion  to  her,  and  within  one  little  week 
thence,  how  shipwrecked  of  all  hope,  object,  and  future 
happiness,  I  was!  Perhaps,  at  that  time,  I  did  not 
sutticiently  consider  the  excusable  cautions  of  tlie  world: 
I  should  not  have  taken  such  umbrage  at  her  father's 
letter,  —  I  should  have  revealed  to  him  my  birth  and 
accession  of  fortune,  nor  bartered  the  truth  of  certain 
happiness  for  the  trials  and  manoeuvres  of  romance. 
But  it  is  too  late  to  repent  now.  By  this  time  my 
image  must  be  wholly  obliterated  from  her  heart:  she 
has  seen  me  in  the  crowd,  and  passed  me  coldly  by,  — 
her  cheek  is  pale,  but  not  for  me;  and  in  a  little,  little 
while  she  will  be  another's,  and  lost  to  me  forever! 
Yet  have  I  never  forgotten  her  through  change  or  time, 


100  THE   DISOWNED. 

—  the  hard  and  harsh  projects  of  ambition,  the  labors  of 
business,  or  the  engrossing  schemes  of  political  intrigue. 
Never!  —  but  this  is  a  vain  and  foolisli  subject  of  reflec- 
tion now." 

And  not  the  less  reflecting  upon  it  for  that  sage  and 
veracious  recollection,  Clarence  turned  from  the  window, 
against  which  he  had  been  leaning,  and  drawing  one  of 
the  four  chairs  to  the  solitary  table,  he  sat  down,  moody 
and  disconsolate,  and  leaning  his  face  upon  his  hands, 
pursued  tlie  confused,  yet  not  disconnected,  thread  of  his 
meditations. 

The  door  abruptly  opened,  and  Mr.  Merry  lack 
appeared. 

"Dear  me,  sir!"  cried  he,  "a  thousand  pities  you 
should  have  been  put  here,  sir!  Fray  step  upstairs,  sir; 
the  front  drawing-room  is  just  vacant,  sir;  what  will 
you  please  to  have  for  dinner,  sir  ?  "  etc. ,  etc. ,  according 
to  the  instructions  of  his  wife.  To  Mr.  I\Ierry lack's 
great  dismay,  Clarence,  however,  resolutely  refused  all 
attempts  at  locomotion,  and  contenting  himself  witli 
intrusting  the  dinner  to  the  discretion  of  the  landlady, 
desired  to  be  left  alone  till  it  was  prepared. 

Now,  when  Mr,  John  Merry  lack  returned  to  the  tap- 
room, and  communicated  the  stubborn  adherence  to 
No.  Four  manifested  by  its  occupier,  our  good  hostess 
felt  exceedingly  discomposed.  "  You  are  so  stupid, 
John,"  said  she,  "  I  '11  go  and  expostulate  like  with 
him;"  and  she  was  rising  for  that  purpose,  when  Har- 
rison, who  was  taking  particularly  good  care  of  himself, 
drew  her  back :  "  T  know  my  master's  temper  better 
than  you  do,  ma'am;  "  said  he;  "  and  when  he  is  in  the 
humor  to  be  stul)born,  the  very  devil  himself  could  not 
get  him  out  of  it.  I  daresay  he  wants  to  be  left  to  him- 
self: he  is  very  fond  of  being  alone  now  and  then;  state 


THE   DISOWNED,  101 

affairs,  you  know,"  added  the  valet,  mysteriously  toucli- 
ing  his  forehead,  "  and  even  I  dare  not  disturb  him  for 
the  world;  so  make  yourself  easy,  and  I  '11  go  to  him 
when  he  has  dined,  and  /supped.  There  is  time  enough 
for  jS"o.  Four,  when  we  have  taken  care  of  number  one. 
Miss,  your  health !  " 

The  landlady,  reluctantly  overruled  in  her  design, 
reseated  herself. 

"Mr.  Clarence  Linden,  M.  P.,  did  you  say,  sir?" 
said  the  learned  Jeremiah ;  "  surely ,  I  have  had  that 
name  or  appellation  in  my  books,  but  I  cannot,  at  this 
instant  of  time,  recall  to  my  recollection  the  exact  date 
and  circumstance  of  my  professional  services  to  the  gen- 
tleman so  designated,  styled,  or,  I  may  say,  termed." 

"Can't  say,  I  am  sure,  sir,"  said  Harrison;  "lived 
with  my  master  many  years ;  never  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  before,  nor  of  travelling  this  road,  —  a  very 
hilly  road  it  is,  sir.  Miss,  this  negus  is  as  bright  as 
your  eyes,  and  as  warm  as  my  admiration." 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"Pray,"  said  Mr.  Merrylack,  who,  like  most  of  his 
tribe,  was  a  bit  of  a  politician ;  "  is  it  the  Mr.  Linden 
who  made  that  long  speech  in  the  House  the  other 
day  1  " 

"Precisely,  sir.  He  is  a  very  eloquent  gentleman, 
indeed:  pity  he  speaks  so  little,  —  never  made  but  that 
one  long  speech  since  he  has  been  in  the  House,  and  a 
capital  one  it  was  too.  You  saw  how  the  prime  min- 
ister complimented  him  upon  it.  '  A  speech,'  said 
his  lordship,  'which  had  united  the  graces  of  youth- 
ful genius  with  the  sound  calculations  of  matured 
experience !  '  " 

"  Did  the  prime  minister  really  so  speak  ?  "  said 
Jeremiah;   "what  a  beautiful  and  noble  and   sensible 


102  THE   DISOWNED. 

compliment!  I  will  examine  my  books  when  I  go 
home,  — '  the  graces  of  youthful  genius  with  the  sound 
calculations  of  matured  experience !  '  " 

"  If  he  is  in  the  Parliament  House,"  quoth  the  land- 
lady, "  I  suppose  he  will  know  our  Mr.  Mordaunt,  when 
the  squire  takes  his  seat,  next  —  what  do  you  call  it  — 
sessions  1  " 

"Know  Mr.  Mordaunt!"  said  the  valet.  "It  is  to 
see  him  that  we  have  come  down  here.  We  intended  to 
have  gone  there  to-night,  but  master  thought  it  too  late, 
and  I  saw  he  was  in  a  melancholy  humor :  we  therefore 
resolved  to  come  here;  and  so  master  took  one  of  the 
horses  from  the  groom,  whom  we  have  left  behind  with 
the  other,  and  came  on  alone.  I  take  it,  he  must  have 
been  in  this  town  before,  for  he  described  the  inn  so 
well.  Capital  cheese  this;  as  mild  —  as  mild  as  your 
sweet  smile,  miss!  " 

"Oh,  sir!" 

"  Pray,  Mistress  Merrylack,"  said  Mr.  Jeremiah  Bos- 
solton,  depositing  his  pipe  on  the  table,  and  awakening 
from  a  profound  reverie  in  which,  for  the  last  five  min- 
utes, his  senses  had  been  buried, — "pray.  Mistress 
Merrylack,  do  you  not  call  to  your  mind,  or  your 
reminiscence,  or  your  —  your  recollection,  a  young  gen- 
tleman, equally  comely  in  his  aspect  and  blandiloquent 
(ahem!)  in  his  address,  who  had  the  misfortune  to  have 
his  arm  severely  contused  and  afflicted  by  a  violent  kick 
from  Mr.  Mordaunt's  horse  even  in  the  yard  in  which 
your  stables  are  situated,  and  who  remained  for  two  or 
three  days  in  your  house,  or  tavern,  or  hotel?  I  do 
remember  that  you  were  grievously  perplexed  because  of 
his  name,  the  initials  of  which  only  he  gave,  or  in- 
trusted, or  communicated  to  you,  until  you  did  exam —  " 

"  I  remember,"  interrupted  Miss  Elizabeth,  —  "  I  re- 


THE   DISOWNED.  103 

memter  well :  a  very  beautiful  young  gentleman  who 
had  a  letter  directed  to  be  left  here,  addressed  to  him  by 
the  letters  C.  L.,  and  who  was  afterwards  kicked,  and 
who  admired  your  cap,  mother,  and  whose  name  was 
Clarence  Linden.  You  remember  it  well  enough, 
mother,  surely  ? " 

"  I  think  I  do,  Lizzy,"  said  the  landlady,  slowly;  for 
her  memory,  not  so  much  occupied  as  her  daughter's  by 
beautiful  young  gentlemen  struggled  slowly  amidst  dim 
ideas  of  the  various  travellers  and  visitors  with  whom 
her  house  had.  been  honored,  before  she  came  at  last,  to 
the  reminiscence  of  Clarence  Linden,  —  "I  think  I  do; 
and  Squire  Mordaunt  was  very  attentive  to  him,  —  and 
he  broke  one  of  the  panes  of  glass  in  No.  Eight,  and 
gave  me  half  a  guinea  to  pay  for  it.  I  do  remember, 
perfectly,  Lizzy.  So  that  is  the  Mr.  Linden  now  here! 
—  only  think!  " 

"  I  should  not  have  known  him,  certainly,"  said  Miss 
Elizabeth ;  "  he  is  grown  so  much  taller,  and  his  hair 
looks  quite  dark  now,  and  his  face  is  much  thinner  than 
it  was;  but  he  's  very  handsome  still,  — is  he  not,  sir?  " 
turning  to  the  valet. 

"Ah!  ah!  well  enough,"  paid  Mr.  Harrison,  stretch- 
ing out  his  right  leg,  and  falling  away  a  little  to  the 
left,  in  the  manner  adopted  by  the  renowned  Gil  Bias 
in  his  address  to  the  fair  Laura,  —  "well  enough;  but 
he  's  a  little  too  tall  and  thin,  /  think." 

Mr,  Harrison's  faults  in  shape  were  certainly  not 
those  of  being  too  tall  and  thin. 

"Perhaps  so!"  said  Miss  Elizabeth,  who  scented  the 
vanity  by  a  kindred  instinct,  and  had  her  own  reasons 
for  pampering  it,  —  "perhaps  so!" 

"  But  he  is  a  great  favorite  with  the  ladies  all  the 
same;  however,  he  only   loves  one  lady.     Ah,   but  I 


104  THE   DISOWNED. 

must  not  say  who,  though  I  know.  However,  she  is  so 
handsome;  such  eyes,  they  would  go  through  you  like 
a  skewer,  but  not  like  yours,  yours,  miss,  which,  I  vow 
and  protest,  are  as  bright  as  a  service  of  plate." 

"Oh,  sir!" 

And  amidst  these  graceful  compliments  the  time 
slipped  away,  till  Clarence's  dinner,  and  his  A^alet's 
supper,  being  fairly  over,  Mr.  Harrison  presented  him- 
self to  his  master,  a  perfectly  diiferent  being  in  attend- 
ance to  what  he  was  in  companionship,  —  flippancy, 
impertinence,  forwardness,  all  merged  in  the  steady, 
sober,  serious  demeanor  which  characterizes  the  respect- 
ful and  well-bred  domestic. 

Clarence's  orders  were  soon  given.  They  were  lim- 
ited to  the  appurtenances  of  writing ;  and  as  soon  as 
Harrison  reappeared  with  his  master's  writing-desk,  he 
was  dismissed  for  the  night. 

Very  slowly  did  Clarence  settle  himself  to  his  task, 
and  attempt  to  escape  the  ennui  of  his  solitude,  or  the 
restlessness  of  thought  feeding  upon  itself,  by  inditing 
the  following  epistle :  — 

TO   THE   DUKE   OF   HAVERFIELD. 

I  WAS  very  unfortunate,  my  dear  duke,  to  miss  seeing  you, 
when  I  called  in  Arlington  Street,  the  evening  before  last;  for 
I  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you,  —  something  upon  public  and 
a  little  upon  private  affairs.  I  will  reserve  the  latter,  since  I 
only  am  the  person  concerned,  for  a  future  opportunity.  With 
respect  to  the  former,  .  .  . 

And  now,  having  finished  the  political  part  of  my  letter, 
let  me  congratulate  you  most  sincerely  upon  your  approaching 
marriage  with  Miss  Trevanion.  I  do  not  know  her  myself ; 
but  I  remember  that  she  was  the  bosom  friend  of  Lady  Flora 
Ardenne,  whom  I  have  often  heard  speak  of  her  in  the  highest 
and  most  affectionate  terms,  so  that  I  imagine  her  brother 


THE   DISOWNED.  105 

could  not  better  atoue  to  you  for  dishonestly  carrying  oflf  the 
fair  Julia  some  three  years  ago,  than  by  giving  you  his  sister 
in  honorable  and  orthodox  exchange,  —  the  gold  armor  for  the 
brazen. 

As  for  my  lot,  though  I  ought  not,  at  this  moment,  to  dim 
yours  by  dwelling  upon  it,  you  know  how  long,  how  con- 
stantly, how  ardently  I  have  loved  Lady  Flora  Ardenne,  — 
how,  for  her  sake,  I  have  refused  opportunities  of  alliance 
which  might  have  gratified,  to  the  utmost,  that  worldliness  of 
heart  which  so  many  who  saw  me  only  in  the  crowd  have  been 
pleased  to  impute  to  me.  You  know  that  neither  pleasure, 
nor  change,  nor  the  insult  I  received  from  her  parents,  nor  the 
sudden  indifference  which  I  so  little  deserved  from  herself, 
has  been  able  to  obliterate  her  image.  You  will  therefore 
sympathize  with  me,  when  I  inform  you  that  there  is  no  longer 
any  doubt  of  her  marriage  with  Borodaile  (or  rather  Lord 
Ulswater,  since  his  father's  death),  as  soon  as  the  sixth  month 
of  his  mourning  expires  ;  to  this  period  only  two  months 
remain. 

Heavens !  when  one  thinks  over  the  past,  how  incredulous 
one  could  become  to  the  future;  when  I  recall  all  the  tokens 
of  love  I  received  from  that  woman,  I  cannot  persuade  myself 
that  they  are  now  all  forgotten,  or  rather,  all  lavished  upon 
another. 

But  I  do  not  blame  her,  —  may  she  be  happier  with  him 
than  she  could  have  been  with  me  !  —  and  that  hope  shall 
whisper  peace  to  regrets  which  I  have  been  foolish  to  indulge 
so  long,  and  it  is,  perhaps,  well  for  me  that  they  are  about  to 
be  rendered  forever  unavailing. 

I  am  staying  at  an  inn,  without  books,  companions,  or  any- 
thing to  beguile  time  and  thought,  but  this  pen,  ink,  and 
paper.  You  will  see,  therefore,  a  reason  and  an  excuse  for  my 
scribbling  on  to  you,  till  my  two  sheets  are  filled,  and  the 
hour  of  ten  (one  can't  well  go  to  bed  earlier)  arrived. 

You  remember  having  often  heard  me  speak  of  a  very  ex- 
traordinary man  whom  I  met  in  Italy,  and  with  whom  I 
became  intimate.  He  returned  to  England  some  months  ago  ; 
and,  on  hearing  it,  my  desire  of  renewing  our  acquaintance 


106  THE    DISOWNED. 

was  80  great  that  I  wrote  to  invite  myself  to  his  house.  He 
gave  me  what  is  termed  a  very  obliging  answer,  and  left  the 
choice  of  time  to  myself.  You  see  now,  most  noble  Festus, 
the  reason  of  my  juurney  hitherwards. 

His  house,  a  line  old  mansion,  is  situated  about  five  or  six 
miles  from  this  town  ;  and  as  1  arrived  here  late  in  the  eveu- 
iiig,  and  knew  that  his  habits  were  reserved  and  peculiar,  I. 
thought  it  better  to  take  "  mine  ease  in  my  inn  "  lor  this  night, 
and  defer  my  visit  to  Mordaunt  CJourt  till  to-morrow  morning. 
In  truth,  1  was  not  averse  to  renewing  an  old  acquaintance,  — 
not,  as  you  in  your  malice  would  suspect,  with  my  hostess,  but 
with  her  house.  Some  years  ago,  when  I  was  eighteen,  I  first 
made  a  slight  acquaintance  with  Mordaunt  at  this  very  inn, 
and  now,  at  twenty-six,  I  am  glad  to  have  one  evening  to  my- 
self on  the  same  spot,  and  retrace  here  all  that  has  since  hap- 
pened to  me. 

Now,  do  not  be  alarmed;  I  am  not  going  to  inflict  upon  you 
the  unquiet  retrospect  with  which  I  have  just  been  vexing 
myself:  no,  I  will  rather  speak  to  you  of  my  acquaintance  and 
host  to  be.  I  have  said  that  I  first  met  Mordaunt  some  years 
since  at  this  inn:  an  accident,  for  which  his  horse  was  to 
blame,  brought  us  acquainted,  —  I  spent  a  day  at  his  house, 
and  was  much  interested  in  his  conversation;  sitice  then,  we 
did  not  meet  till  about  two  years  and  a  half  ago,  when  we  were 
in  Italy  together.  During  the  intermediate  interval  i\Iordaunt 
had  married  ;  lost  his  property  by  a  lawsuit ;  disappeared  from 
the  world  (whither  none  knew)  for  some  years  ;  recovered 
the  estate  he  had  lost  by  the  death  of  his  kinsman's  heir,  and 
shortly  afterwards  by  that  of  the  kinsman  himself,  — and  had 
become  a  "widower,  with  one  only  child,  a  beautiful  little  girl 
of  about  four  years  old.  He  lived  in  perfect  seclusion,  avoided 
all  intercourse  with  society,  and  seemed  so  perfectly  uncon- 
scious of  having  ever  seen  me  before,  whenever  in  our  rides 
or  walks  we  met,  that  I  could  not  venture  to  intrude  myself 
on  a  reserve  so  rigid  and  unbroken  as  that  which  characterized 
his  habits  and  life. 

The  gloom  and  loneliness,  however,  in  Avhich  Mordaunt's 
days  were  spent,  were  far  from  partaking  of  that  selfishness  so 


THE    DISOWNED.  107 

common,  almost  so  necessarily  common,  to  recluses.  Wherever 
he  had  gone  in  his  travels  through  Italy,  he  hatl  left  light  and 
rejoicing  behind  him.  In  his  residence  at ,  while  un- 
known to  the  great  and  gay,  he  was  familiar  with  the  outcast 
and  the  destitute.  The  prison,  the  hospital,  the  sordid  cabins 
of  want,  the  abodes  (so  frequent  in  Italy,  that  emporium  of 
artists  and  poets)  where  genius  struggled  against  poverty  and 
its  o-\vn  improvidence,  —  all  these  were  the  spots  to  which  his 
visits  were  paid,  and  in  which  "  the  very  stones  prated  of  his 
whereabout."  It  was  a  strange  and  striking  contrast  to  com- 
pare the  sickly  enthusiasm  of  those  who  flocked  to  Italy,  to 
lavish  their  sentiments  on  statues,  and  their  wealth  on  the 
modern  impositions  palmed  upon  their  taste  as  the  master- 
pieces of  ancient  art,  —  it  was  a  noble  contrast,  I  say,  to  com- 
pare that  ludicrous  and  idle  enthusiasm  with  the  quiet  and 
wholesome  energy  of  mind  and  heart  which  led  Mordaunt,  not 
to  pour  forth  worship  and  homage  to  the  unconscious  monu- 
ments of  the  dead,  but  to  console,  to  relieve,  and  to  sustain  the 
woes,  the  wants,  the  feebleness  of  the  living. 

Yet,  while  he  was  thus  employed  in  reducing  the  miseries 
and  enlarging  the  happiness  of  others,  the  most  settled  melan- 
choly seemed  to  mark  himself  "as  her  own."  Clad  in  the 
deepest  mourning,  a  stern  and  unbroken  gloom  sat  forever 
upon  his  countenance.  I  have  observed,  that  if  in  his  walks 
or  rides  any  one,  especially  of  the  better  classes,  appeared  to 
approach,  he  would  strike  into  a  new  path.  He  could  not 
bear  even  the  scrutiny  of  a  glance  or  the  fellowship  of  a  mo- 
ment ;  and  his  mien,  high  and  haughty,  seemed  not  only  to 
repel  others,  but  to  contradict  the  meekness  and  charity  which 
his  own  actions  so  invariably  and  unequivocally  displayed. 
It  mu.st,  indeed,  have  been  a  powerful  exertion  of  principle 
over  feeling,  which  induced  him  voluntarily  to  seek  the  abodes 
and  intercourse  of  the  rude  beings  he  blessed  and  relieved. 

We  met  at  two  or  three  places  to  which  my  weak  and  im- 
perfect charity  had  led  me,  especially  at  the  house  of  a  sickly 
and  distressed  artist  ;  for  in  former  life  I  had  intimately  known 
one  of  that  profession,  and  I  have  since  attemj)ted  to  transfer 
to  his  brethren  that  debt  of  kindness  which  an  early  death 


108  THE   DISOWNED. 

forbafle  me  to  discharge  to  himself.  It  was  thus  that  I  first 
became  acquainted  with  Mordaunt's  occupations  and  pursuits; 
for  what  ennobled  his  benevolence  was  the  remarkable  obscu- 
rity in  which  it  was  veiled.  It  was  in  disguise  and  in  secret 
that  his  generosity  flowed  ;  and  so  studiously  did  he  conceal 
his  name,  and  hide  even  his  features,  during  his  brief  visits  to 
"the  house  of  mourning,"  tliat  only  one,  like  myself,  a  close 
and  minute  investigator  of  whatever  has  once  become  an  object 
of  interest,  cuuld  have  traced  his  hand  in  the  various  works  of 
happiness  it  had  aided  or  created. 

One  day,  among  some  old  ruins,  I  met  him  with  his  young 
daughter.  By  great  good  fortune  I  preserved  the  latter,  who 
had  wandered  away  from  her  father,  from  a  fall  of  loose  stones 
which  would  inevitably  have  crushed  her.  I  was  myself 
much  hurt  by  my  effort,  having  received  upon  my  shoulder  a 
fragment  of  the  falling  stones ;  and  thus  our  old  acquaintance 
was  renewed,  and  gradually  ripened  into  intimacy ;  not,  I 
must  own,  without  great  patience  and  constant  endeavor  ou 
my  part,  for  his  gloom  and  lonely  habits  rendered  him  utterly 
impracticable  of  access  to  any  (as  Lord  Aspeden  would  say) 
but  a  diplomatist.  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  him  during  the  six 
months  I  remained  in  Italy,  and  —  but  you  know  already  how 
warmly  I  admire  his  extraordinary  powers,  and  venerate  his 
character.     Lord  Aspedeu's  recall  to  England  separated  us. 

A  general  election  ensued.  I  was  returned  for .  I  en- 
tered eagerly  into  domestic  politics,  —  your  friendship.  Lord 
Aspeden's  kindness,  my  own  wealth  and  industry,  made  my 
success  almost  unprecedentedly  rapid.  Engaged,  heart  and 
hand,  in  those  minute  yet  engrossing  labors  for  which  tlie  aspi- 
rant in  parliamentary  and  state  intrigue  must  unhappily  forego 
the  more  enlarged,  though  abstruser  speculations  of  general 
philoso]-)hy,  and  of  that  morality  which  may  be  termed  uni- 
versal politics,  I  have  necessarily  been  employed  in  very  differ- 
ent pursuits  from  those  to  which  Mordaunt's  contemplations 
are  devoted,  yet  have  I  often  recalled  his  maxims,  with  admi- 
ration at  their  depth,  and  obtained  apidause  for  opinions  which 
were  only  imperfectly  filtered  from  the  pure  springs  of  his 
own. 


THE    DISOWNED.  109 

It  is  about  six  raonths  since  he  has  returned  to  England, 
and  he  has  very  lately  obtained  a  seat  in  Parliament,  so  that 
we  may  trust  soon  to  see  his  talents  displayed  upon  a  more 
]Hiblic  and  enlarged  theatre  than  they  hitherto  have  been ; 
and,  though  I  fear  his  p(;litics  will  be  opposed  to  ours,  I  anti- 
cipate his  public  debut  with  that  interest  which  genius,  even 
when  adverse  to  one's  self,  always  inspires.  Yet  I  confess  that 
I  am  desirous  to  see  and  converse  with  him  once  more  in  the 
familiarity  and  kindness  of  private  intercourse.  The  rage  of 
party,  the  narrowness  of  sectarian  zeal,  soon  exclude  from  our 
friendship  all  those  who  differ  fn)m  our  opinions  ;  and  it  is 
like  sailors  holding  commune  for  the  last  time  witli  each  other, 
before  their  several  vessels  are  divided  by  the  perilous  and  un- 
certain sea,  to  confer  in  peace  and  retirement  for  a  little  while 
with  those  who  are  about  to  be  launched  with  us  on  that  same 
imquiet  ocean,  where  any  momentary  caprice  of  the  winds  may 
disjoin  us  forever,  and  where  our  very  union  is  only  a  sym- 
pathy in  toil,  and  a  fellowship  in  danger. 

Adieu,  my  dear  duke,  it  is  fortunate  for  me  that  our  puljlic 
opinions  are  so  closely  allied,  and  that  I  may  so  reasonaldy 
calculate  in  private  upon  the  happiness  and  honor  of  subscrib- 
ing myself  your  affectionate  friend, 

C.  L. 

Such  was  the  letter  to  which  we  shall  leave  the 
explanation  of  much  that  has  taken  place  within  the 
last  three  years  of  our  tale,  and  which,  in  its  tone,  will 
serve  to  show  the  kindness  and  generosity  of  heart  and 
feeling  that  mingled  (rather  increased  than  abated  by 
the  time  which  brought  wisdom)  with  the  hardy  activity 
and  resolute  ambition  that  characterized  the  mind  of  our 
"DisoAvned."  We  now  consign  him  to  such  repose  as 
the  best  bedroom  in  the  Golden  Fleece  can  afford,  and 
conclude  the  chapter. 


110  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LX. 

Thougli  the  wilds  of  encliiintnieut,  all  vernal  and  bright, 

lu  the  ilays  of  delusion,  by  fancy  couihined 
Witli  the  vanishing  phantoms  of  love  and  delight, 
Abandon  my  soul  like  a  dream  of  the  night, 

And  leave  but  a  desert  behind,  — 

Be  hushed,  my  dark  spirit,  for  Wisdom  condemns 

When  the  faint  and  the  feeble  deplore  ; 
Be  strong  as  the  rock  of  the  ocean  that  stems 

A  thousand  wild  waves  on  the  shore ! 

Campbell. 

"  Shall  I  order  the  carriage  round,  sir?  "  said  Harrison: 
"  it  is  past  one." 

"  Yes,  — yet  stay :  the  day  is  fine,  —  I  will  ride.  Let 
the  carriage  come  on  in  the  evening ;  see  that  my  horse 
is  saddled,  — you  looked  to  his  mash  last  night?  " 

"I  did,  sir.  He  seems  wonderfully  fresh;  would 
you  please  to  have  me  stay  here  with  the  carriage,  sir, 
till  the  groom  comes  on  with  the  other  horse  1  " 

"Ay;  do,  —  I  don't  know  yet  how  far  strange  ser- 
vants may   be  welcome  where  I  am  going. " 

"  ISTow,  that 's  lucky !  "  said  Harrison  to  himself,  as 
he  shut  the  door:  "I  shall  have  a  good  five  hours' 
opportunity  of  making  my  court  here.  INliss  Elizabeth 
is  really  a  very  pretty  girl,  and  might  not  be  a  bad 
match.  I  don't  see  any  brothers;  who  knows  but  she 
may  succeed  to  the  inn, — hem!  A  servant  may  be 
ambitious  as  well  as  his  master,  I  suppose  1  " 

So  meditating,  Harri.son  sauntered  to  the  st aides, 
saw  (for  he  was  an  admirable  servant,  and  could  at  a 


THE   DISOWNED,  111 

pinch  dress  a  horse  as  well  as  its  master)  tliat  Clarence's 
beautiful  steed  received  the  utmost  nicety  of  grooming 
which  the  hostler  coukl  bestow,  led  it  himself  to  the 
door,  held  the  stirrup  for  his  master,  with  the  mingled 
humility  and  grace  of  his  profession,  and  then  strutted 
away  —  "  pride  on  his  brow  and  glory  in  his  eye  "  —  to 
be  the  cynosure  and  oracle  of  the  tap-room. 

Meanwhile,  Linden  rode  slowly  onwards.  As  he 
passed  that  turn  of  the  town  by  which  he  had  for  the 
first  time  entered  it,  the  recollection  of  the  eccentric  and 
would-be  gypsy  flashed  upon  him.  "  I  wonder,"  thought 
he,  "  where  that  singular  man  is  now,  —  whether  he  still 
preserves  his  itinerant  and  woodland  tastes  — 

'  Si  fluniina  sylvasque  inglorius  amet  ;'  ^ 

or  whether,  as  his  family  increased  in  age  or  number, 
he  has  turned  from  his  wanderings,  and  at  length  found 
out '  the  peaceful  hermitage. '  How  glowingly  the  whole 
scene  of  that  night  comes  across  me:  the  wild  tents, 
their  wilder  habitants,  the  mingled  bluntness,  poetry, 
honest  good-nature,  and  spirit  of  enterprise  which  con- 
stituted the  chief's  nature;  the  jovial  meal  and  mirth 
round  the  wood  fire  and  beneath  the  quiet  stars,  and 
the  eagerness  and  zest  with  Avhich  I  then  mingled  in  the 
merriment.  Alas !  —  how  ill  the  fastidiousness  and  re- 
finement of  after-days  repays  us  for  the  elastic,  buoyant, 
ready  zeal,  with  which  our  first  youth  enters  into  what- 
ever is  joyous,  without  pausing  to  ask  if  its  cause  and 
nature  be  congenial  to  our  habits  or  kindred  to  our 
tastes.  After  all,  there  really  was  something  philo- 
sophical in  the  romance  of  the  jovial  gypsy,  childish  as 
it  seemed ;  and  I  should  like  much  to  know  if  the  philo- 
sophy  has  got  the   better  of   the  romance,    or  the   ro- 

1  If,  unknown  to  fame,  he  love  the  streams  and  the  woods. 


112  THE    DISOWNED. 

mance,  growing  into  habit,  become  commonplace,  and 
lost  both  its  philosophy  and  its  enthusiasm.  Well, 
after  I  leave  Mordaunt,  I  will  try  and  find  out  my 
old  friend." 

With  this  resolution  Clarence's  thoughts  took  a  new 
channel,  and  he  soon  entered  upon  IMordaunt's  domain. 
As  he  rode  thro\igh  the  park,  where  brake  and  tree  were 
glowing  in  the  yellow  tints  which  autumn,  like  ambi- 
tion, gilds  ere  it  withers,  he  paused  for  a  moment  to 
recall  the  scene  as  he  last  beheld  it.  It  was  then  spring, 
—  spring  in  its  first  and  flushest  glory,  — when  not  a 
blade  of  grass  but  sent  a  perfume  to  the  air,  the 
happy  air,  — 

"  Making  sweet  music  wliile  the  young  leaves  danced  ;  " 

when  every  cluster  of  the  brown  fern,  that  now  lay  dull 
and  motionless  around  him,  and  amidst  which  the  mel- 
ancholy deer  stood  afar  off,  gazing  upon  tlie  intruder, 
was  vocal  with  the  blithe  melodies  of  the  infant  year: 
the  sharp,  yet  sweet  voices  of  birds,  and  (heard  at  in- 
tervals) the  cliirp  of  the  merry  grasshopper,  or  the  hum 
of  the  awakened  bee.  He  sighed  as  he  now  looked 
around  and  recalled  the  change ,  both  of  time  and  season ; 
and  with  that  fondness  of  heart  which  causes  man  to 
knit  his  own  little  life  to  the  varieties  of  time,  the 
signs  of  Heaven,  or  the  revolutions  of  nature,  he  recog- 
nized something  kindred  in  the  change  of  scene  to  the 
change  of  thought  and  feeling  which  years  had  Avrought 
in  the  beholder. 

Awaking  from  his  reverie,  he  hastened  his  horse's 
pace,  and  was  soon  within  sight  of  tlie  house.  Vava- 
sour, during  the  few  years  he  had  possessed  the  place, 
had  conducted  and  carried  through  improvements  and 
additions  to  the  old  mansion  upon  a  scale  equally  costly 


THE   DISOWNED.  113 

and  judicious.  The  heavy  and  motley  magnificence  of 
the  architecture  in  which  the  house  had  been  built  re- 
mained unaltered;  but  a  wing  on  either  side,  though 
exactly  corresponding  in  style  with  the  intermediate 
building,  gave,  by  the  long  colonnade  which  ran  across 
the  one,  and  the  stately  windows  which  adorned  the 
other,  an  air  not  only  of  grander  extent  but  more  cheer- 
ful lightness  to  the  massy  and  antiquated  pile.  It  was 
assuredly,  in  the  point  of  view  by  which  Clarence  now 
approached  it,  a  structure  which  possessed  few  superiors 
in  point  of  size  and  effect,  and  harmonized  so  well  with 
the  noble  extent  of  the  park,  the  ancient  woods,  and  the 
venerable  avenues,  that  a  very  slight  effort  of  imagina- 
tion might  have  poured  from  the  massive  portals  the 
pageantries  of  old  days,  and  the  gay  galliard  of  chivalric 
romance  with  which  the  scene  was  in  such  accordance, 
and  which  in  a  former  age  it  had  so  often  witnessed. 

Ah,  little  could  any  one  who  looked  upon  that  gor- 
geous pile,  and  the  broad  lands  which,  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  the  park,  swelled  on  the  hills  of  the  dis- 
tant landscape,  studded  at  frequent  intervals  with  the 
spires  and  villages  which  adorned  the  wide  baronies  of 
Mordaunt,  —  little  could  he  who  thus  gazed  around  have 
imagined  that  the  owner  of  all  he  surveyed  had  passed 
the  glory  and  verdure  of  his  manhood  in  the  bitterest 
struggles  with  gnawing  want  and  rebellious  pride  and 
urgent  passion,  without  friend  or  aid  but  his  own 
haughty  and  supporting  virtue,  sentenced  to  bear  yet 
in  his  wasted  and  barren  heart  the  sign  of  the  storm 
he  had  resisted,  and  the  scathed  token  of  the  lightning 
he  had  braved.  None  but  Crauford,  who  had  his  own 
reasons  for  taciturnity,  and  the  itinerant  broker,  easily 
bribed  into  silence,  had  ever  known  of  the  extreme  pov- 
erty   from  which  Mordaunt  had  passed  to  his  rightful 

VOL.  11.  —  8 


114  THE   DISOWNED. 

possessions.  It  was  whispered,  indeed,  that  he  had  been 
reduced  to  narrow  and  straitened  circumstances ;  but  the 
whisper  had  been  only  the  breath  of  rumor,  and  tlie 
imagined  poverty  far  short  of  the  reality :  for  the  pride 
of  Mordaunt  (the  great,  almost  the  sole  failing  in  his 
character)  could  not  endure  that  all  he  had  borne  and 
baffled  should  be  bared  to  the  vulgar  eye ;  and,  by  a  rare 
anomaly  of  mind,  indifferent  as  he  Avas  to  renown,  he 
was  morbidly  susceptible  of  shame. 

When  Clarence  rang  at  the  ivy -covered  porch,  and 
made  inquiry  for  Mordaunt,  he  was  informed  that  the 
latter  was  in  the  park,  by  the  river,  Avhere  most  of  his 
hours  during  the  daytime  were  spent. 

"  Shall  I  send  to  acquaint  him  that  you  are  come, 
sir  1  "  said  the  servant. 

"  No,"  answered  Clarence;  "  I  will  leave  my  horse  to 
one  of  the  grooms,  and  stroll  down  to  the  river  in  search 
of  your  master. " 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  dismounted,  con- 
signed his  steed  to  the  groom,  and  following  the  direc- 
tion indicated  to  him,  bent  his  way  to  the  "  river." 

As  he  descended  the  hill,  the  brook  (for  it  did  not 
deserve,  though  it  received,  a  higher  name)  opened  en- 
chantingly  upon  his  view.  Amidst  the  fragrant  reed 
and  the  wild-flower,  still  sweet,  though  fading,  and 
tufts  of  tedded  grass,  all  of  which,  when  crushed  be- 
neath the  foot,  sent  a  itingled  tribute  to  its  sparkling 
waves,  the  wild  stream  took  its  gladsome  course,  —  now 
contracted  by  gloomy  firs,  which,  bending  over  the 
water,  cast  somewhat  of  their  own  sadness  upon  its  sur- 
face; now  glancing  forth  from  the  shade,  as  it  "broke 
into  dimples,  and  laughed  in  the  sun;"  now  washing 
the  gnarled  and  spreading  roots  of  some  lonely  ash, 
which,   hanging  over  it  still  and   droopingly,  seemed, 


THE   DISOWNED.  115 

the  hermit  of  the  scene,  to  moralize  on  its  noisy  and 
various  wanderings;  now  winding  round  the  hill,  and 
losing  itself  at  last  amidst  thick  copses,  where  day  did 
never  more  than  wink  and  glimmer,  and  where,  at  night, 
its  waters,  hrawling  through  their  stony  channel,  seemed 
like  a  spirit's  wail,  and  harmonized  well  with  the  scream 
of  the  gray  owl,  wheeling  from  her  dim  retreat,  or  the 
moaning  and  rare  sound  of  some  solitary  deer. 

As  Clarence's  eye  roved  admiringly  over  the  scene 
before  him,  it  dwelt  at  last  upon  a  small  building  situ- 
ated on  the  wildest  part  of  the  opposite  bank;  it  was 
entirely  overgrown  with  ivy,  and  the  outline  only  re- 
mained to  show  the  Gothic  antiquity  of  the  architecture. 
It  was  a  single  square  tower,  built  none  knew  when  or 
wherefore,  and  consequently  the  spot  of  many  vagrant 
guesses  and  wild  legends  among  the  surrounding  gos- 
sips. On  approaching  yet  nearer,  he  perceived,  alone 
and  seated  on  a  little  mound  beside  the  tower,  the 
object  of  his  search. 

Mordaunt  was  gazing  with  vacant  yet  earnest  eye 
upon  the  waters  beneath;  and  so  intent  was  either  his 
mood  or  look,  that  he  was  unaware  of  Clarence's  ap- 
proach. Tears,  fast  and  large,  were  rolling  from  those 
haughty  eyes  which  men  who  shrank  from  their  indif- 
ferent glance  little  deemed  were  capable  of  such  weak 
and  feminine  emotion.  Far,  far  through  the  aching 
void  of  time,  were  the  thoughts  of  the  reft  and  solitary 
mourner;  they  were  dwelling  in  all  the  vivid  and  keen 
intensity  of  grief  which  dies  not,  upon  the  day  when, 
about  that  hour  and  on  that  spot,  he  sat,  with  Isabel's 
yovmg  cheek  upon  his  bosom,  and  listened  to  a  voice 
now  only  heard  in  dreams.  He  recalled  the  moment 
when  the  fatal  letter,  charged  with  change  and  poverty, 
was  given  to  him,  and  the  pang  which  had  rent  his  heart 


116  THE   DISOWNED, 

as  he  looked  around  upon  a  scene  over  whicli  spring  had 
just  then  breathed,  and  which  he  was  about  to  leave  to 
a  fresh  summer  and  a  new  lord;  and  then  that  deep, 
fond,  half-fearful  gaze  witli  which  Isabel  had  met  his 
eye,  and  the  feeling,  proud  even  in  its  melancholy,  with 
which  he  had  drawn  towards  his  breast  all  that  earth 
had  left  to  him,  and  thanked  God  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
that  ahe  was  spared, 

"  And  I  am  once  more  master,"  tliought  he,  "  not 
only  of  all  I  then  lield,  but  all  which  my  wealthier 
forefathers  possessed.  But  she  who  was  the  sharer  of 
my  sorrows  and  want,  — oh,  where  is  she?  Rather,  ah! 
rather  a  hundredfold  that  her  hand  was  still  clasped  in 
mine,  and  lier  spirit  supporting  me  through  poverty  and 
trial,  and  her  soft  voice  murmuring  the  comfort  that 
steals  away  care,  than  to  be  thus  heaped  with  wealth 
and  honor,  and  alone,  —  alone,  where  never  more  can 
come  love,  or  hope,  or  the  yearnings  of  aifection,  or  the 
sweet  fulness  of  a  heart  that  seems  fathomless  in  its 
tenderness,  yet  overflows!  Had  my  lot,  when  she  left 
me,  been  still  the  steepings  of  bitterness,  the  stings  of 
penury,  the  moody  silence  of  hope,  the  damp  and  chill 
of  sunless  and  aidless  years,  which  rust  the  very  iron  of 
the  soul  away,  —  had  my  lot  been  thus,  as  it  had  been, 
I  could  have  borne  her  death,  I  could  have  looked  upon 
her  grave,  and  wept  not:  nay,  I  could  have  comforted 
my  own  struggles  with  the  memory  of  her  escape ;  but 
thus,  at  the  very  moment  of  prosperity,  to  leave  the 
altered  and  promising  earth,  '  to  house  with  darkness 
and  with  death,'  —  no  little  gleam  of  sunshine,  no  brief 
recompense  for  the  agonizing  past,  no  momentary  respite 
between  tears  and  the  tomb.  Oh,  Heaven!  what  — 
what  avail  is  a  wealth  which  comes  too  late,  when  she, 
who  could  alone  have  made  wealth   bliss  is  dust;  and 


THE   mSOWXED.  117 

the  light  that  should  have  gilded  many  and  happy  days, 
flings  only  a  ghastly  glare  upon  the  tomb  1  " 

Starting  from  these  reflections,  Mordaunt  half  uncon- 
sciously rose,  and  dashing  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  was 
about  to  plunge  into  the  neighboring  thicket,  when, 
looking  up,  he  beheld  Clarence,  now  within  a  few  paces 
of  him.  He  started,  and  seemed  for  one  moment  irreso- 
lute whether  to  meet  or  shun  his  advance,  but,  probably 
deeming  it  too  late  for  the  latter,  he  banished,  by  one 
of  those  violent  efforts  with  which  men  of  proud  and 
strong  minds  vanquish  emotion,  all  outward  sign  of  the 
past  agony,  and  hastening  towards  his  guest,  greeted 
him  with  a  welcome  which,  though  from  ordinary  hosts 
it  might  have  seemed  cold,  appeared  to  Clarence,  who 
knew  his  temper,  more  cordial  than  he  had  ventured  to 
anticipate. 


118  THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

My  father  urged  me  sair, 

But  my  inither  did  na  speak, 
Though  she  looked  into  my  face 

Till  my  heart  was  like  to  break. 

Auld  Robin  Gray. 

"  It  is  rather  singular,"  said  Lady  Westborough  to  her 
daughter,  as  they  sat  alone  one  afternoon  in  the  music- 
room  at  Westborough  Park,  —  "  it  is  rather  singular  that 
Lord  Ulswater  should  not  have  come  yet.  He  said  he 
should  certainly  be  here  before  three  o'clock." 

"  You   know,    mamma,    that   he   has   some    military 

duties  to  detain  him  at  W ,"  answered  Lady  Flora, 

bending  over  a  drawing,  in  which  she  appeared  to  be 
earnestly  engaged. 

"  True,  my  dear,  and  it  was  very  kind  in  Lord 

to  quarter  the  troop  he  commands  in  his  native  county ; 

and  very  fortunate  that  W ,  being  his  headquarters, 

should  also  be  so  near  us.  But  I  cannot  conceive  that 
any  duty  can  be  sufficiently  strong  to  detain  him  from 
you,"  added  Lady  Westborough,  who  had  been  accus- 
tomed all  her  life  to  a  devotion  unparalleled  in  this  age. 
"  You  seem  very  indulgent.  Flora." 

"Alas!  — she  should  rather  say  very  indifferent," 
thought  Lady  Flora;  but  she  did  not  give  her  tliought 
utterance,  —  she  only  looked  up  at  her  mother  for  a 
moment,  and  smiled  faintly. 

Whether  there  was  something  in  that  smile,  or  in  the 
pale  cheek  of  her  daughter,  that  touched  her,  we  know 


THE   DISOWNED.  119 

not,  but  Lady  Westborough  ivas  toucbed ;  sbe  tbrew 
her  arms  round  Lady  Flora's  neck,  kissed  her  fondly, 
and  said,  "  You  do  not  seem  well  to-day,  my  love,  —  are 
you?" 

"  Oh!  very,  very  well,"  answered  Lady  Mora,  return- 
ing her  mother's  caress,  and  hiding  her  eyes,  to  which 
the  tears  had  started. 

"  My  child,"  said  Lady  Westborough,"  you  know  that 
both  myself  and  your  father  are  very  desirous  to  see 
you  married  to  Lord  Ulswater:  of  high  and  ancient 
birth,  of  great  wealth,  young,  unexceptionable  in  person 
and  character,  and  warmly  attached  to  you,  —  it  would 
be  impossible  even  for  the  sanguine  heart  of  a  parent  to 
ask  for  you  a  more  eligible  match.  But  if  the  thought 
really  does  make  you  wretched,  —  and  yet,  how  can 
it?" 

"  I  have  consented,"  said  Flora,  gently:  "  all  I  ask  is, 
do  not  speak  to  me  more  of  the  —  the  event  than  you  can 
avoid." 

Lady  Westborough  pressed  her  hand,  sighed,  and 
replied  not. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  marquess,  who  had  within 
the  last  year  become  a  cripple  with  the  great  man's 
malady,  dira  podagra,  was  wheeled  in  on  his  easy-chair: 
close  behind  him  followed  Lord  TTlswater. 

"I  have  brought  you,"  said  the  marquess,  who  piqued 
himself  on  a  vein  of  dry  humor,  —  "I  have  brought  you, 
young  lady,  a  consolation  for  my  ill  humors.  Few 
gouty  old  fathers  make  themselves  as  welcome  as  I  do, 
—  eh,  Ulswater!" 

"  Dare  I  apply  to  myself  Lord  Westborough's  compli- 
ment? "  said  the  young  nobleman,  advancing  towards 
Lady  Flora;  and  drawing  his  seat  near  her,  he  entered 
into  that  whispered  conversation  so  significant  of  court- 


120  THE   DISOWNED. 

ship.  But  there  was  little  in  Lady  Flora's  manner  by 
which  an  experienced  eye  would  have  detected  the  bride- 
elect:  no  sudden  blush,  no  downcast  yet  sidelong  look, 
no  trembling  of  the  hand,  no  indistinct  confusion  of  the 
voice,  struggling  with  unanalyzed  emotions.  No,  —  all 
was  calm,  cold,  listless:  her  cheek  changed  not  tint  nor 
hue;  and  her  words,  clear  and  collected,  seemed  to  con- 
tradict whatever  the  low  murmurs  of  her  betrothed 
might  well  be  supposed  to  insinuate.  Ikit,  even  in  his 
behavior,  there  was  something  which,  had  Lady  West- 
borough  been  less  contented  than  she  Avas  with  the  exter- 
nals and  surface  of  manner,  would  have  alarmed  her  for 
her  daugliter.  A  cloud,  sullen  and  gloomy,  sat  upon 
his  brow,  and  his  lip  alternately  quivered  with  some- 
thing like  scorn,  or  was  compressed  with  a  kind  of  stifled 
passion.  Even  in  the  exultation  that  sparkled  in  his 
eye,  when  he  alluded  to  their  approaching  marriage, 
there  was  an  expression  that  almost  might  have  been 
termed  fierce,  and  certainly  was  as  little  like  the  true 
orthodox  ardor  of  "gentle  swain,"  as  Lady  Flora's  sad 
and  half-unconscious  coldness  resembled  the  diffident 
passion  of  the  "  blushing  maiden." 

"  You  have  considerably  passed  the  time  in  which  we 
expected  you,  my  lord,"  said  Lady  Westborough,  Avho, 
as  a  beauty  herself,  was  a  little  jealous  of  the  deference 
due  to  the  beauty  of  her  daughter. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Lord  Ulswater,  glancing  towards 
the  opposite  glass,  and  smoothing  his  right  eyebrow 
with  his  forefinger,  — "  it  is  true,  but  I  could  not  help  it. 
I  had  a  great  deal  of  business  to  do  with  my  troop,  —  I 
have  put  them  into  a  new  mancBUvre.  Do  you  know, 
my  lord  "  (turning  to  the  marquess),  "I  think  it  very 

likely  the  soldiers  may  have  some  work  on  the of 

this  month." 


THE    DISOWNED.  121 

"Where  and  wherefore?"  asked  Lord  Westborough, 
whom  a  sudden  twinge  forced  into  the  laconic. 

"  At  W .     Some  idle  fellows  hold  a  meeting  there 

on  that  day;  and  if  I  may  judge  by  bills  and  advertise- 
ments, chalkings  on  the  walls,  and,  more  than  all,  pop- 
ular rumor,  I  have  no  doubt  but  what  riot  and  sedition 
are  intended,  —  the  magistrates  are  terribly  frightened. 
I  hope  we  shall  have  some  cutting  and  hewing,  —  I 
have  no  patience  with  the  rebellious  dogs. " 

"  For  shame,  —  for  shame !  "  cried  Lady  Westborough, 
who,  though  a  worldly,  was  by  no  means  an  unfeeling 
woman ;  "  the  poor  people  are  misguided,  —  they  mean 
no  harm." 

Lord  Ulswater  smiled  scornfully.  "  I  never  dispute 
upon  politics,  but  at  the  head  of  my  men,"  said  he,  and 
turned  the  conversation. 

Shortly  afterwards  Lady  Flora,  complaining  of  indis- 
position, rose,  left  the  apartment,  and  retired  to  her  own 
room.  There  she  sat,  motionless  and  white  as  death,  for 
more  than  an  hour.  A  day  or  two  afterwards,  Miss 
Trevanion  received  the  following  letter  from  her:  — 

Most  heartily,  most  truly  do  I  congratulate  you,  my  dear- 
est Eleanor,  upon  your  approaching  marriage.  You  may 
reasonably  hope  for  all  that  happiness  can  afford  ;  and  though 
you  do  affect  (for  I  do  not  think  that  you  feci)  a  fear  lest  you 
should  not  be  able  to  fix  a  character,  volatile  and  light,  like 
your  lover's,  yet,  when  I  recollect  his  warmth  of  heart  and 
high  sense,  and  your  beauty,  gentleness,  charms  of  conversa- 
tion, and  purely  disinterested  love  for  one  whose  great  worldly 
advantages  might  so  easily  bias  or  adulterate  affection,  I  own 
that  I  have  no  dread  for  your  future  fate,  no  feeling  that  can 
at  all  darken  the  brightness  of  anticipation.  Thank  you, 
dearest,  for  the  delicate  kindness  with  which  you  allude  to  my 
destiny,  —  me,  indeed,  you  cannot  congratulate  as  I  can  you. 
But  do  not  grieve  for  me,  my  own  generous  Eleanor  :  if  not 


122  THE    DISOWNED. 

liappv,  I  shall,  I  trust,  be  at  least  contented.  My  poor  father 
implored  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  —  my  mother  pressed  my 
hand,  but  spoke  not;  and  I  —  I  whose  affections  were  with- 
ered, and  hopes  strewn,  should  I  not  have  been  hard-hearted 
indeed  if  they  had  not  wrung  from  me  a  consent  ?  And,  oh  ! 
should  I  not  be  utterly  lost,  if  in  that  consent  which  blessed 
them,  I  did  not  find  something  of  peace  and  consolation  ? 

Yes,  dearest,  in  tw^o  months,  only  two  months,  I  shall  be 
Lord  Ulswater's  wife  ;  and,  when  we  meet,  you  shall  look 
narrowly  at  me,  and  see  if  he  or  you  have  any  right  to  com- 
plain of  me. 

Have  you  seen  Mr.  Linden  lately  ?  Yet,  do  not  answer  the 
question;  I  ought  not  to  cherish  still  that  fatal,  clinging  inter- 
est for  one  who  has  so  utterly  forgotten  nie.  But  I  do  rejoice 
in  his  prosperity  :  and  when  I  hear  his  praises  and  watch  his 
career,  I  feel  proud  that  I  should  once  have  loved  him  !  Oh, 
how  could  he  be  so  false,  so  cruel,  in  the  very  midst  of  his 
professions  of  undying,  unswerving  faith  to  me,  at  the  very 
moment  when  I  was  ill,  miserable,  wasting  my  very  heart  for 
anxiety  on  his  account,  —  and  such  a  woman  too  !  And  had 
he  loved  me,  even  though  his  letter  was  returned,  would  not 
his  conscience  have  told  him  he  deserved  it,  and  would  he  not 
have  sought  me  out  in  person,  and  endeavored  to  win  from  my 
folly  his  forgiveness  ?  But  without  attempting  to  see  me,  or 
speak  to  me,  or  soothe  a  displeasure  so  natural,  to  leave  the 
country  in  silence,  almost  in  disdain ;  and  when  we  met 
again,  to  greet  me  with  coldness  and  hauteur,  and  never  betray 
by  word,  sigh,  or  look,  that  he  had  ever  been  to  me  more  thau 
the  merest  stranger  I  Fool,  fool  that  I  am,  to  waste  another 
thought  upon  him  ;  but  I  will  not,  and  ought  not  to  do  so. 
In  two  months  I  shall  not  even  have  the  privilege  of 
remembrance. 

I  wish,  Eleanor, — for  I  assure  you  that  I  have  tried  and 
tried,  —  that  I  could  find  anything  to  like  and  esteem  (since 
love  is  out  of  the  question)  in  this  man  who  seems  so  great, 
and,  to  me,  so  unaccountable  a  favorite  with  my  parents.  His 
countenance  and  voice  are  so  harsh  and  stern  ;  his  manner  at 
once  so  self-complacent  and  gloomy  ;  his  sentiments  so  narrow 


THE   DISOWNED.  123 

even  in  their  notions  of  honor;  his  very  courage  so  savage,  and 
his  pride  so  constant  and  offensive,  —  that  I  in  vain  endeavor  to 
persuade  myself  of  his  virtues,  and  recur,  at  least,  to  the  un- 
wearying affection  for  me  which  he  professes.  It  is  true  that 
he  has  been  three  times  refused  ;  that  I  have  told  him  I  can- 
not love  him  ;  that  I  have  even  owned  former  love  to  another  : 
he  still  continues  his  suit,  and  by  dint  of  long  hope  has  at 
length  succeeded.  But  at  times  I  could  almost  think  that  he 
married  me  from  very  hate,  rather  than  love,  there  is  such  an 
artificial  smoothness  in  his  stern  voice,  such  a  latent  meaning 
in  his  eye;  and  when  he  thinks  I  have  not  noticed  him,  I  have, 
on  suddenly  turning  towards  him,  perceived  so  dark  and  lower- 
ing an  expression  upon  his  countenance  that  my  heart  has  died 
within  me  for  very  fear. 

Had  my  mother  been  the  least  less  kind,  my  father  the  least 
less  urgent,  I  think,  nay,  I  know,  I  could  not  have  gained  such 
a  victory  over  myself  as  I  have  done  in  consenting  to  the  day. 
But  enough  of  this.  I  did  not  think  I  should  have  run  on  so 
long  and  so  foolishly;  but  we,  dearest,  have  been  children  and 
girls  and  women  together  :  we  have  loved  each  other  with  such 
fondness  and  unreserve,  that  opening  my  heart  to  you  seems 
only  another  phrase  for  thinking  aloud. 

However,  in  two  months  I  shall  have  no  right  even  to 
thoughts,  —  perhaps  I  may  not  even  love  you.  Till  then, 
dearest  Eleanor,  I  am,  as  ever,  your  affectionate  and  faithful 

friend, 

F.  A. 

Had  Lord  Westborough,  indeed,  been  "  less  urgent," 
or  her  mother  "  less  kind,"  nothing  could  have  wrung 
from  Lady  Flora  her  consent  to  a  marriage  so  ungenial 
and  ill-omened. 

Thrice  had  Lord  Ulswater  (then  Lord  Borodaile) 
heen  refused,  before  finally  accepted;  and  those  who 
judge  only  from  the  ordinary  effects  of  pride,  would  be 
astonished  that  he  should  have  still  persevered.  But 
his    pride  was    that   deep-rooted    feeling  which,  so  far 


124  THE   DISOWNED. 

from  being  repelled  by  a  single  blow,  fights  stubbornly 
and  doggedly  onward  till  the  battle  is  over  and  its 
object  gained.  From  the  moment  he  had  resolved  to 
address  Lady  Flora  Ardenne,  he  had  also  resolved  to 
win  her.  For  three  years,  despite  of  a  refusal,  first 
gently,  then  more  peremptorily  urged,  he  fixed  himself 
in  her  train.  He  gave  out  that  he  was  her  affianced. 
In  all  parties,  in  all  places,  he  forced  himself  near  her, 
unheeding  alike  of  her  frowns  or  indifference ;  and  his 
rank,  his  hauteur,  his  fierceness  of  mien,  and  acknowl- 
edged courage,  kept  aloof  all  the  less  arrogant  and  hardy 
pretenders  to  Lady  Flora's  favor.  For  this,  indeed,  she 
rather  thanked  than  blamed  him;  and  it  was  the  only 
thing  which  in  the  least  reconciled  her  modesty  to  his 
advances,  or  her  pride  to  his  presumption. 

He  had  been  prudent  as  well  as  bold.  The  father  he 
had  served,  and  the  mother  he  had  won.  Lord  West- 
borough,  addicted  a  little  to  politics,  a  good  deal  to 
show,  and  devotedly  to  gaming,  was  often  greatly  and 
seriously  embarrassed.  Lord  Ulswater,  even  during  the 
life  of  his  father  (who  was  lavishly  generous  to  him), 
was  provided  with  the  means  of  relieving  his  intended 
father-in-law's  necessities;  and  caring  little  for  money 
in  comparison  to  a  desired  object,  he  was  willing  enough, 
we  do  not  say  to  bribe,  but  to  injinence  Lord  West- 
borough's  consent.  These  matters  of  arrangement  were 
by  no  means  concealed  from  the  marchioness,  who, 
herself  ostentatious  and  profuse,  was  in  no  small  degree 
benefited  by  tliem ;  and  though  they  did  not  solely 
procure,  yet  they  certainly  contributed  to  conciliate  her 
favor. 

Few  people  are  designedly  and  systematically  wicked: 
even  the  worst  find  good  motives  for  bad  deeds ;  and  are 
as  intent  upon  discovering  glosses  for  conduct,  to  deceive 


THE   DISOWNED.  125 

themselves,  as  to  delude  others.  What  wonder,  then, 
that  poor  Lady  Westborough,  never  too  rigidly  addicted 
to  self-examination,  and  viewing  all  things  through  a 
very  worldly  medium,  saw  only,  in  the  alternate  art  and 
urgency  employed  against  her  daughter's  real  happiness, 
the  various  praiseworthy  motives  of  permanently  disen- 
tangling Lady  Flora  from  an  unworthy  attacliment,  of 
procuring  for  her  an  establishment  proportioned  to  her 
rank,  and  a  husband  whose  attachment,  already  shown 
by  such  singular  perseverance,  was  so  likely  to  afford  her 
everything  which,  in  Lady  Westborough 's  eyes,  con- 
stituted felicity. 

All  our  friends,  perhaps,  desire  our  happiness;  but 
then  it  must  invariably  be  in  their  OAvn  way.  What  a 
pity  that  they  do  not  employ  the  same  zeal  in  making  us 
happy  hi  ours  ! 


126  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

If  tliou  criest  after  Knowledge,  and  lifte.st  up  thy  voice  for  under- 
standing , 

If   thou   scaliest  her  as  silver,  and  searchest  for  her  as  for  hid 
treasures ; 

Then  shalt  thou  understand  the  fear  of  the  Lord,  and  find  the 
knowledge  of  God. 

Proverbs,  ii.  3,  4,  5. 

While  Clarence  was  thus  misjudged  by  one  whose 
affections  and  conduct  he,  in  turn,  naturally  misinter- 
preted; while  Lady  Flora  was  alternately  struggling 
against  and  submitting  to  the  fate  which  Lady  West- 
borough  sa^v  approach  with  gladness,  the  father  with 
indifference,  and  the  bridegroom  with  a  pride  tliat  par- 
took less  of  rapture  than  revenge,  —  our  unfortunate  lover 
was  endeavoring  to  glean,  from  Mordaunt's  conversation 
and  example,  somewhat  of  that  philosophy  so  rare  except 
in  the  theories  of  the  civilized  and  the  occasional  prac- 
tice of  the  barbarian,  which,  though  it  cannot  give  us  a 
charm  against  misfortune,  bestows  at  least  upon  us  the 
energy  to  support  it. 

We  have  said  already,  that  when  the  first  impression 
produced  by  Mordaunt's  apparent  pride  and  coldness  wore 
away,  it  required  little  penetration  to  discover  the  benev- 
olence and  warmth  of  his  mind.  But  none  ignorant  of 
his  original  disposition,  or  the  misfortunes  of  his  life, 
could  ever  have  pierced  the  depth  of  his  self-sacrificing 
nature,  or  measured  the  height  of  his  lofty  and  devoted 
virtup.  Many  men  may  perhaps  be  found  who  will 
give  up  to  duty  a  cherished  wish,  or  even  a  darling  vice, 


THE   DISOW.NED.  127 

but  few  Avill  ever  renounce  to  it  their  rooted  tastes,  or 
the  indulgence  of  those  habits  which  have  almost  become, 
by  long  use,  their  happiness  itself.  Naturally  melan- 
choly and  thoughtful,  feeding  the  sensibilities  of  his 
heart  upon  fiction,  and  though  addicted  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  reason  rather  than  fancy,  having  perhaps  more 
of  the  deeper  and  acuter  characteristics  of  the  poet  than 
those  calm  and  half -callous  properties  of  nature,  sup- 
posed to  belong  to  the  metaphysician  and  the  calculating 
moralist,  Mordaunt  was  above  all  men  fondly  addicted  to 
solitude,  and  inclined  to  contemplations  less  useful  than 
profound.  The  untimely  death  of  Isabel,  whom  he  had 
loved  Avith  that  love  which  is  the  vent  of  hoarded  and 
passionate  musings,  long  nourished  upon  romance,  and 
lavishing  the  wealth  of  a  soul  that  overflows  with  se- 
creted tenderness,  upon  the  first  object  that  can  bring 
reality  to  fiction,  —  that  event  had  not  only  darkened 
melancholy  into  gloom,  but  had  made  loneliness  still 
more  dear  to  his  habits  by  all  the  ties  of  memory,  and 
all  the  consecrations  of  regret.  The  companionless 
wanderings,  the  midnight  closet,  the  thoughts  which,  as 
Hume  said  of  his  own,  could  not  exist  in  the  world,  but 
were  all  busy  with  life  in  seclusion,  — these  were  ren- 
dered sweeter  than  ever  to  a  mind  for  which  the  ordinary 
objects  of  the  world  were  now  utterly  loveless;  and  the 
musings  of  solitude  had  become,  as  it  were,  a  rightful 
homage  and  offering  to  the  dead.  We  may  form,  then, 
some  idea  of  the  extent  to  which,  in  Mordamit's  charac- 
ter, principle  predominated  over  inclination,  and  regard 
for  others  over  the  love  of  self,  when  we  see  him  tearing 
his  spirit  from  its  beloved  retreats  and  abstracted  con- 
templations, and  devoting  it  to  duties  from  which  its 
fastidious  and  refined  characteristics  were  particularly 
calculated   to   revolt.     When   we   have   considered  his 


128  THE   DISOWNED. 

attaclimont    to    the    hennitage,    we    can    appreciate    tho 
virtue  Avhich  made  him  among  th.e  most  active  citizens 
in  the  groat  Avorhl ;  when  we  have  considered  the  natural 
selfishness  of  grief,  the  pride  of  philosophy ,  the  indolence 
of   meditation,  the   eloquence  of   Avealth,   which   says, 
"  Kest  and  toil  not,"  and  the  temptation  within,  which 
says,  "  Obey   the   voice ;  "  —  when   we  have  considered 
these,  we  can  perhaps  do  justice  to  the  man  who,  some- 
times on  foot  and  in  the  coarsest  attire,  travelled  from 
inn    to    inn,  and    from    hut  to  hut;   who  made  human 
misery  the  object  of  his  search,  and  human  happiness  of 
his  desire,  Avho,  breaking  aside  an  aversion  to  rude  con- 
tact, almost  feminine  in  its  extreme,  voluntarily  sought 
the  meanest  companions,  and  subjected  himself  to  the 
coarsest  intrusions;  for  whom  the  wail  of  affliction,  or 
the  moan  of  hunger,  was  as  a  simimons  which  allowed 
neither  hesitation  nor  appeal ;  who  seemed  possessed  of 
a  ubiquity  for  the  piarposes  of   good,  almost  resembling 
that  attriliutcd  to  the  wanderer  in  the  magnificent  fable 
of  "  Melmoth,"  for  the  temptations  to  evil;  who,  by  a 
zeal  and  labor  that  brought  to  habit  and  inclination  a 
thousand  martyrdoms,  made  his  life  a  very  hour-glass, 
in  which  each  sand  was  a  good  deed  or  a  virtuous  design. 
jMany  plunge  into  public  afi'airs,  to  which  tliey  liave  had 
a  previous  distaste,  from  the  desire  of  losing  the  memory 
of  a  private  affliction;  but  so  far  from  wishing  to  heal 
the    wounds    of    remembrance    by  the    anodynes   which 
society  can   afford,  it  was  only  in   retirement  that  IMor- 
daunt  found  the  flowers  from  which  balm  could  be  dis- 
tilled.     Many  arc    through    vanity    magnanimous,    and 
benevolent  from  the  selfishness  of  fame ;  but  so  far  from 
seeking  applause,  where  he  bestowed  favor,  Mordaunt 
had   sedulously  shrouded  himself  in   darkness   and  dis- 
guise.     And,  by  that  increasing  propensity  to  quiet,  so 


THE   DISOWNED.  129 

often  found  among  those  addicted  to  lofty  or  abstruse 
contemplation,  he  had  conquered  the  ambition  of  youth 
with  the  philosophy  of  a  manhood  that  had  forestalled 
the  affections  of  age.  Many,  in  short,  have  become 
great  or  good  to  the  community  by  individual  motives 
easily  resolved  into  common  and  earthly  elements  of  de- 
sire; but  they  who  inquire  diligently  into  human  nature 
have  not  often  the  exalted  happiness  to  record  a  char- 
acter like  Mordaunt's,  actuated  purely  by  a  systematic 
principle  of  love,  which  covered  mankind,  as  heaven 
does  earth,  with  an  atmosphere  of  light  extending  to  the 
remotest  corners,  and  penetrating  tlie  darkest  recesses. 

It  was  one  of  those  violent  and  gusty  evenings  which 
give  to  an  English  autumn  something  rude,  rather  than 
gentle  in  its  characteristics,  that  Mordaunt  and  Clarence 
sat  together, 

"And  sowed  the  hours  with  various  seeds  of  talk." 

The  young  Isabel,  the  only  living  relic  of  the  departed 
one,  sat  by  her  father's  side  upon  the  floor;  and  though 
their  discourse  was  far  beyond  the  comprehension  of  her 
years,  yet  did  she  seem  to  listen  M'ith  a  quiet  and  ab- 
sorbed attention.  In  truth,  child  as  she  was,  she  so 
loved,  and  almost  worshipped  her  father,  that  the  very 
tones  of  his  voice  had  in  them  a  charm  which  could 
always  vibrate,  as  it  were,  to  her  heart,  and  hush  her 
into  silence;  and  that  melancholy  and  deep,  though 
somewhat  low  voice,  when  it  swelled  or  trembled  with 
thought, —  which  in  Mordaunt  was  feeling, —  made  her 
sad,  she  knew  not  why;  and  when  she  heard  it,  she 
would  creep  to  his  side,  and  put  her  little  hand  on  his, 
and  look  up  at  him  with  eyes  in  whose  tender  and 
glistening  blue  the  spirit  of  her  mother  seemed  to  float. 
She  was  serious  and  thoughtful  and  loving  beyond  the 

VOL.  II.  —  9 


130  THE  DISOWNED. 

usual  capacities  of  childhood;  perhaps  her  solitary 
condition,  and  habits  of  constant  intercourse  with  one  so 
grave  as  Mordaunt,  and  who  always,  when  not  absent  on 
his  excursions  of  cliarity,  loved  her  to  he  witli  him, 
had  given  to  her  mind  a  precocity  of  feeling,  and  tinc- 
tured the  simplicity  of  infancy  witli  what  ought  to  have 
been  the  colors  of  after  years.  She  was  not  inclined 
to  the  sports  of  her  age,  —  she  loved,  rather,  and  above 
all  else,  to  sit  by  Mordaunt's  side,  and  silently  pore  over 
some  book,  or  feminine  task,  and  to  steal  her  eyes  every 
now  and  then  away  from  her  employment,  in  order  to 
watch  his  motions,  or  provide  for  whatever  her  vigilant 
kindness  of  heart  imagined  he  desired.  And  often, 
when  he  saw  her  fairy  and  lithe  form  hovering  about 
him,  and  attending  on  his  wants,  or  her  beautiful  coun- 
tenance glow  with  pleasure,  when  she  fancied  she  sup- 
plied them,  he  almost  believed  that  Isabel  yet  lived, 
though  in  another  form,  and  that  a  love,  so  intense 
and  holy  as  hers  had  been,  might  transmigrate,  but  could 
not  perish. 

The  young  Isabel  had  displayed  a  passion  for  music  so 
early  tliat  it  almost  seemed  innate;  and  as,  from  the 
mild  and  wise  education  she  received,  her  ardor  had 
never  been  repelled  on  the  one  hand  or  overstrained 
on  the  other,  so,  though  she  had  but  just  passed  her 
seventh  year,  she  had  attained  to  a  singular  proficiency 
in  the  art, —  an  art  that  suited  well  with  her  lovely  face 
and  fond  feelings  and  innocent  heart;  and  it  was  almost 
heavenly,  in  the  literal  acceptation  of  the  word,  to  hear 
her  sweet  though  childish  voice  swell  along  the  still, 
pure  airs  of  summer,  and  her  angelic  countenance  all 
rapt  and  brilliant  with  the  enthusiasm  which  her  own 
melodies  created. 

Never  had  she  borne  the  bitter  breath  of  unkindness, 


THE   DISOWNED.  131 

nor  writhed  beneath  that  customary  injustice  which 
punishes  in  others  the  sins  of  our  own  temper,  and  the 
varied  fretfulness  of  caprice;  and  so  she  had  none  of  the 
fears  and  meannesses  and  acted  untruths  which  so 
usually  pollute  and  debase  the  innocence  of  childhood. 
But  the  promise  of  her  ingenuous  brow  (over  which 
the  silken  hair  flowed,  parted  into  two  streams  of  gold), 
and  of  the  fearless  but  tender  eyes,  and  of  the  quiet 
smile  which  sat  forever  upon  the  rosy  mouth,  like  Joy 
watching  Love,  was  kept  in  its  fullest  extent  by  the 
mind,  from  which  all  thoughts,  pure,  kind,  and  guile- 
less, flowed,  like  waters  from  a  well  which  a  spirit  has 
made  holy  for  its  own  dwelling. 

On  this  evening,  we  have  said  that  she  sat  by  her 
father's  side  and  listened  —  though  she  only  in  part  drank 
in  its  sense  —  to  his  conversation  with  his  guest. 

The  room  was  of  great  extent,  and  surrounded  with 
books,  over  which,  at  close  intervals,  the  busts  of  the 
departed  great  and  the  immortal  wise  looked  down. 
There  was  the  sublime  beauty  of  Plato,  the  harsher 
and  more  earthly  countenance  of  Tully,  the  only  Roman 
(except  Lucretius)  who  might  have  been  a  Greek. 
There  the  mute  marble  gave  the  broad  front  of  Bacon 
(itself  a  world),  and  there  the  features  of  Locke  showed 
how  the  mind  wears  away  the  links  of  flesh  with  the  file 
of  thought.  And  over  other  departments  of  those  works 
which  remind  us  that  man  is  made  little  lower  than  the 
angels,  the  stern  face  of  the  Florentine  who  sang  of 
hell,  contrasted  with  the  quiet  grandeur  enthroned  on 
the  fair  brow  of  the  English  poet,  ^"  blind,  but  bold," 
—  and  there  the  glorious  but  genial  countenance  of  him 
who  has  found  in  all  humanity  a  friend,  conspicuous 
among  sages  and  minstrels,  claimed  brotherhood  with 
all. 


132  THE   DISOWNED. 

Tlie  fire  burned  clear  and  liigli,  casting  a  ricli  twilight 
(for  there  was  no  other  light  in  the  room)  over  that 
Gothic  chamber,  and  shining  cheerily  upon  the  varying 
countenance  of  Clarence,  and  the  more  contemplative 
features  of  his  host.  In  the  latter  might  you  see  that 
care  and  thought  had  been  harsh,  but  not  unhallowed 
conmanions.  In  the  lines  which  crossed  his  expanse  of 
brow,  time  seemed  to  have  buried  naany  hopes;  but  his 
mien  and  air,  if  loftier,  were  gentler  than  in  younger 
days;  and  though  they  had  gained  somewhat  in  dignity, 
had  lost  greatly  in  reserve. 

There  was  in  the  old  chamber,  with  its  fretted  roof 
and  ancient  "garniture,"  the  various  books  which  sur- 
romided  it,  walls  that  the  learned  built  to  survive  them- 
selves, and  in  the  marble  likenesses  of  those  for  whom 
thought  liad  won  eternity,  joined  to  the  hour,  the  breath- 
ing quiet,  and  the  hearth-light,  by  whose  solitary  rays 
we  love  best  in  the  eves  of  autumn  to  discourse  on 
graver  or  subtler  themes,  —  there  was  in  all  this  a  spell 
which  seemed  particularly  to  invite  and  to  harmonize 
with  that  tone  of  conversation,  some  portions  of  which 
we  are  now  about  to  relate. 

"How  loudly,"  said  Clarence,  "  that  last  gust  swept 
by;  you  remember  that  beautiful  couplet  in  Tibullus, — 

*  Quam  juvat  iinmites  ventos  audire  cul)antem, 
Et  dominam  tenero  detinuisse  sinu.'  "  ^ 

"Ay,"  answered  IMordaunt,  with  a  scarcely  audible 
sigh;  "  that  is  the  feeling  of  the  lover  at  the  *  immites 
ventos,^  but  we  sages  of  the  lamp  make  our  mistress 
Wisdom,  and  when  the  winds  rage  without,  it  is  to  her 
that  we  cling.     Sec  how  from  the  same  object  different 

1  Sweet  on  our  couch  to  hear  the  winds  above, 
And  cling  with  closer  heart  to  her  we  love. 


THE   DISOWNED.  133 

conclusions  are  drawn  !  —  the  most  common  externals  of 
nature,  the  wind  and  the  wave,  the  stars  and  the  heavens, 
the  very  earth  on  which  we  tread,  never  excite  in  diffei'^ 
ent  bosoms  the  same  ideas ;  and  it  is  from  our  own  hearts 
and  not  from  an  outward  source,  that  we  draw  the  hues 
which  color  the  web  of  our  existence." 

"It  is  true,"  answered  Clarence.  "You  remember 
that  in  two  specks  of  the  moon  the  enamoured  maiden 
perceived  two  unfortunate  lovers,  while  the  ambitious 
curate  conjectured  that  they  were  the  spires  of  a  cathe- 
dral ?  But  it  is  not  only  to  our  feelings,  but  also  to 
our  reasonings,  that  avb  give  the  colors  which  they  wear. 
The  moral,  for  instance,  which  to  one  man  seems  atro- 
cious, to  another  is  divine.  On  the  tendency  of  the  same 
work  what  three  people  will  agree  1  And  how  shall  the 
most  sanguine  moralist  hope  to  benefit  mankind  when 
he  finds  that,  by  the  multitude,  his  wisest  endeavors  to 
instruct  are  often  considered  but  as  instruments  to 
pervert  ?  " 

"  I  believe,"  answered  Mordaunt,  "  that  it  is  from  our 
ignorance  that  our  contentions  flow;  we  debate  with 
strife  and  with  wrath,  with  bickering  and  with  hatred, 
but  of  the  thing  debated  upon  we  remain  in  the  pro- 
foundest  darkness.  Like  the  laborers  of  Babel,  while 
we  endeavor  in  vain  to  express  our  meaning  to  each 
other,  the  fabric  by  which,  for  a  common  end,  we  would 
have  ascended  to  heaven  from  the  ills  of  earth  remains 
forever  unadvanced  and  incomplete.  Let  us  hope  that 
knowledge  is  the  universal  language  which  shall  reunite 
us.  As  in  their  sublime  allegory  the  ancients  signified 
that  only  through  virtue  we  arrive  at  honor,  so  let  us 
believe  that  only  through  knowledge  can  we  arrive  at 
virtue ! " 

"And  yet,"  said  Clarence,  "that  seems  a  melancholy 


134  THE    DISOWNED, 

truth  for  the  mass  of  the  people,  who  liave  no  time  for 
the  researclies  of  wisdom." 

"  Xot  so  much  so  as  at  first  we  miglit  imagine,"  an- 
swered Mordauut ;  "  the  few  smootli  all  paths  for  the 
many.  The  precepts  of  knowledge  it  is  difficult  to  ex- 
tricate from  error,  but,  once  discovered,  they  gradually 
pass  into  maxims;  and  thus  what  the  sage's  life  was  con- 
sumed in  acquiring,  become  the  acquisition  of  a  moment 
to  posterity.  Knowledge  is  like  the  atmosphere,  —  in 
order  to  dispel  the  vapor  and  dislodge  the  frost,  our 
ancestors  felled  the  forest,  drained  the  marsh,  and  cul- 
tivated the  waste;  and  we  now  breathe,  without  an 
effort,  in  the  purified  air  and  the  chastened  climate, 
the  result  of  the  labor  of  generations  and  the  progress 
of  ages!  As  to-day,  the  common  mechanic  may  equal 
in  science,  however  inferior  in  genius,  the  friar  ^  whom 
his  contemporaries  feared  as  a  magician,  so  the  opinions 
which  now  startle  as  Avell  as  astonish  may  be  received 
hereafter  as  acknowledged  axioms,  and  pass  into  ordi- 
nary practice.  We  cannot  even  tell  how  far  the  san- 
guine ^  theories  of  certain  pliilosophers  deceive  them 
when  they  anticipate  for  future  ages  a  knowledge  which 
shall  bring  perfection  to  the  mind,  baffle  the  diseases  of 
the  body,  and  even  protract  to  a  date  now  utterly  un- 
known the  final  destination  of  life:  for  Wisdom  is  a 
palace  of  which  only  the  vestibule  has  been  entered; 
nor  can  we  guess  what  treasures  are  hid  in  those  cham- 
bers, of  which  the  experience  of  the  past  can  afi"ord  us 
neither  analogy  nor  clew." 

1  Roger  Bacon. 

2  See  Condorcet  on  the  Progress  of  the  Unman  Mind :  written 
some  years  after  the  supjxised  date  of  tliis  conversation,  but  in 
whicli  there  is  a  slight,  hut  eh:)queut  and  affecting  view  of  the 
philosophy  to  wliich  Mordauut  refers. 


THE   DISOWNED.  135 

"  It  waS;  then,"  said  Clarence,  who  wished  to  draw 
his  companion  into  speaking  of  himself,  —  "it  was, 
then,  from  your  addiction  to  studies  not  ordinarily 
made  the  subject  of  acquisition  that  you  date  (pardon 
me)  your  generosity,  your  devotedness,  your  feeling  for 
others,  and  your  indifference  to  self?" 

"You  flatter  me,"  said  Mordaunt,  modestly  (and  we 
may  be  permitted  to  crave  attention  to  his  reply,  since 
it  unfolds  the  secret  springs  of  a  character  so  singularly 
good  and  pure) ,  —  "  you  flatter  me ;  but  I  will  answer 
you,  as  if  you  had  put  the  question  without  the  compli- 
ment; nor,  perhaps,  will  it  be  wholly  uninstructive,  as 
it  will  certainly  be  new,  to  sketch,  without  recurrence 
to  events,  or  what  I  may  call  exterior  facts,  a  brief  and 
progressive  History  of  One  Human  Mind. 

"  Our  first  era  of  life  is  under  the  influence  of  the 
primitive  feelings:  we  are  pleased,  and  we  laugh;  hurt, 
and  we  weep;  we  vent  our  little  passions  the  moment 
they  are  excited ;  and  so  much  of  novelty  have  we  to 
perceive,  that  we  have  little  leisure  to  reflect.  By-and- 
by,  fear  teaches  us  to  restrain  our  feelings:  when  dis- 
pleased, we  seek  to  revenge  the  displeasure,  and  are 
punished;  we  find  the  excess  of  our  joy,  our  sorrow,  our 
anger,  alike  considered  criminal,  and  chidden  into  re- 
straint. From  harshness  we  become  acquainted  with 
deceit:  the  promise  made  is  not  fulfilled,  the  threat  not 
executed,  the  fear  falsely  excited,  and  the  hope  wilfully 
disappointed,  —  we  are  surrounded  by  systematized  de- 
lusion, and  we  imbibe  the  contagion. 

"  From  being  forced  into  concealing  the  thoughts 
which  we  do  conceive,  we  begin  to  affect  those  which 
we  do  not :  so  early  do  we  learn  the  two  main  tasks  of 
life,  to  suppress  and  to  feign,  that  our  memory  will  not 
carry  us  beyond   that   period  of  artifice  to  a  state   of 


136  THE   DISOWNED. 

nature  when  the  twin  princijihis  of  veracity  and  belief 
were  so  strong  as  to  lead  tlie  i)hilosopliers  of  a  modern 
school  into  the  error  of  terming  them  innate.'^ 

"  It  was  with  a  mind  restless  and  confused,  —  feelings 
which  were  alternately  chilled  and  counterfeited  (the 
necessary  results  of  my  first  tuition),  —  that  I  was 
driven  to  mix  witli  others  of  my  age.  They  did  not 
like  me,  nor  do  I  blame  them.  Les  manieres  que  Von 
neglige  comvie  de  petites  choses,  sont  souverit  ce  qui  fait 
que  les  homines  decident  de  vous  en  h'len  ou  en  mal."^ 
Manner  is  acquired  so  imperceptibly  that  we  have  given 
its  origin  to  nature,  as  we  do  the  origin  of  all  else  for 
which  oiir  ignorance  can  find  no  other  source.  Mine 
was  unprepossessing:  I  was  disliked,  and  I  returned  the 
feeling;  I  sought  not,  and  I  was  shunned.  Then  I 
thought  that  all  were  unjust  to  me,  and  I  grew  bitter 
and  sullen  and  morose :  I  cased  myself  in  the  stubborn- 
ness of  pride ;  I  pored  over  the  books  which  spoke  of 
the  worthlessness  of  man,  and  I  indulged  the  discontent 
of  myself  by  brooding  over  the  frailties  of  my  kind. 

"  My  passions  were  strong,  they  told  me  to  suppress 
them.  The  precept  was  old,  and  seemed  wise,  —  I  at- 
tempted to  enforce  it.  I  had  already  begun,  in  earlier 
infancy,  the  lesson;  I  had  now  only  to  renew  it.  For- 
tunately I  Avas  diverted  from  this  task,  or  my  mind,  in 
conquering  its  passions,  would  have  conquered  its  powers. 
I  learned  in  after  lessons  that  the  passions  are  not  to  be 
suppressed,  —  they  are  to  be  directed,  and  when  di- 
rected, rather  to  be  strengthened  than  subdued. 

"  Observe  how  a  word  may  influence  a  life :  a  man 
whose  opinion  I  esteemed,  made  of  me  the  casual  and 

^  Reid  on  the  Human  Mind. 

^  Those  manners  which  one  neglects  as  trifling,  are  often  the 
cause  of  the  opinion,  good  or  bad,  formed  of  you  by  men. 


THE   DISOWNED.  137 

trite  remark,  that  *  my  nature  was  one  of  which  it  was 
impossible  to  augur  evil  or  good;  it  might  be  extreme 
in  either.'  This  observation  roused  me  into  thought: 
could  I  indeed  be  all  that  was  good  or  evil;  had  I  the 
choice,  and  could  I  hesitate  which  to  choose  1  But  what 
was  good  and  what  was  evil?  That  seemed  the  most 
difficult  inquiry. 

"  I  asked  and  received  no  satisfactory  reply :  in  the 
words  of  Erasmus,  Totius  negotii  caput  acfontem  igno- 
rant, devinant,  ac  dilirant  ormies  ;  ^  so  I  resolved  my- 
self to  inquire  and  to  decide.  I  subjected  to  my  scrutiny 
the  moralist  and  the  philosopher :  I  saw  that  on  all  sides 
they  disputed,  but  I  saw  that  they  gretv  virtuous  in  the 
dispute  ;  they  uttered  much  that  was  absurd  about  the 
origin  of  good,  but  much  more  that  was  exalted  in  its 
piaise;  and  I  never  rose  from  any  work  which  treated 
ably  upon  morals,  whatever  Avere  its  peculiar  opinions, 
but  I  felt  my  breast  enlightened  and  my  mind  ennobled 
by  my  studies.  The  professor  of  one  sect  commanded 
me  to  avoid  the  dogmatist  of  another,  as  the  propagator 
of  moral  poison;  and  the  dogmatist  retaliated  on  the 
professor:  but  I  avoided  neither;  I  read  both,  and  turned 
all  '  into  honey  and  fine  gold.'  No  inquiry  into  wis- 
dom, however  superficial,  is  undeserving  attention.  The 
vagaries  of  the  idlest  fancy  will  often  chance,  as  it  were, 
upon  the  most  useful  discoveries  of  truth,  and  serve  as  a 
guide  to  after  and  to  slower  disciples  of  wisdom ;  even 
as  the  peckings  of  birds  in  an  unknown  country  indicate 
to  the  adventurous  seamen  the  best  and  the  safest  fruits. 

"  From  the  works  of  men  I  looked  into  their  lives, 
and  I  found  that  there  was  a  vast  difference  (though  I 
am  not  aware  that  it  has  before  been  remarked)  between 

1  All  ignore,  guess,  and  rave  about  the  head  and  fouutaiu  of  the 
whole  questiou  at  issue. 


138  THE   DISOWNED. 

those  who  cultivated  a  talent,  and  those  who  cultivated 
the  mind :  I  found  that  the  mere  men  of  genius  were 
often  erring  or  criminal  in  their  lives,  but  that  vice  or 
crime  in  the  disciples  of  philosophy  was  strikingly  un- 
frequent  and  rare.  The  extremest  culture  of  reason  had 
not,  it  is  true,  been  yet  carried  far  enough  to  preserve 
the  laborer  from  follies  of  opinion ;  but  a  moderate  cul- 
ture had  been  sufficient  to  deter  him  from  the  vices  of 
life.  And  only  to  the  sons  of  Wisdom,  as  of  old  to 
the  sages  of  the  East,  seemed  given  the  unerring  star, 
which,  through  the  travail  of  Earth  and  the  clouds  of 
Heaven,  led  them  at  the  last  to  their  God! 

"  When  I  gleaned  this  fact  from  biography,  I  paused, 
and  said,  *  Then  must  there  be  something  excellent  in 
wisdom,  if  it  can,  even  in  its  most  imperfect  disciples, 
be  thus  beneficial  to  morality.'  Pursuing  this  senti- 
ment, I  redoubled  my  researches,  and  behold  the  object 
of  my  quest  was  won!  I  had  before  sought  a  satisfactory 
answer  to  the  question,  '  What  is  virtue  ?  '  from  men  of 
a  thousand  tenets,  and  my  heart  had  rejected  all  I  had 
received.  '  Virtue,'  said  some,  and  my  soul  bowed 
reverently  to  the  dictate,  —  'virtue  is  religion.'  I 
heard  and  humbled  myself  before  the  Divine  Book. 
Let  me  trust  that  I  did  not  humble  myself  in  vain! 
But  the  dictate  satisfied  less  than  it  awed;  for,  either 
it  limited  virtue  to  the  mere  belief,  or,  by  extending  it 
to  the  practice  of  religion,  it  extended  also  inquiry  to 
the  method  in  which  the  practice  should  be  applied. 
But  with  the  first  interpretation  of  the  dictate  who  could 
rest  contented  1  —  for  while  in  the  perfect  enforcement 
of  the  tenets  of  our  faith  all  virtue  may  be  found,  so 
in  the  passive,  and  the  mere  belief  in  its  divinity,  we 
find  only  an  engine  as  applicable  to  evil  as  to  good.  The 
torch  which  should  illumine  the  altar  has  also  lighted 


THE   DISOWNED.  139 

the  stake,  and  the  zeal  of  the  persecutor  has  been  no  less 
sincere  than  the  heroism  of  the  martyr.  Rejecting, 
therefore,  this  interpretation,  I  accepted  the  other:  I 
felt  in  my  heart,  and  T  rejoiced  as  I  felt  it,  that  in  the 
practice  of  religion  the  body  of  all  virtue  could  be  found. 
But  in  that  conviction  had  I  at  once  an  answer  to  my 
inquiries  ?  Could  the  mere  desire  of  good  be  suf3ficient 
to  attain  it, — and  was  the  attempt  at  virtue  synony- 
mous with  success  ?  On  the  contrary,  have  not  those 
most  desirous  of  obeying  the  precepts  of  God  often 
sinned  the  most  against  their  spirit,  and  has  not  zeal 
been  frequently  the  most  ardent  when  crime  was  the 
most  rife  1  ^  But  what  if  neither  sincerity  nor  zeal  was 
sufficient  to  constitute  goodness ;  what  if  in  the  breasts 
of  the  best  intentioned,  crime  had  been  fostered,  the 
more  dangerously,  because  the  more  disguised,  —  what 
ensued?  That  the  religion  which  they  professed,  they 
believed,  they  adored,  they  had  also  viisimderstood ; 
and  that  the  precepts  to  be  drawn  from  the  Holy  Book, 
they  had  darkened  by  tlieir  ignorance,  or  perverted  by 
their  passions!  Here,  then,  at  once,  my  enigma  was 
solved;  here,  then,  at  once,  I  was  led  to  the  goal  of  my 
inquiry!  Ignorance  and  the  perversion  of  passion  are 
but  the  same  thing,  though  under  different  names,   for 

1  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  they  who  exterminated  the  Albi- 
genses,  estabh'shed  the  Inquisition,  lisrhted  the  fires  at  Smithfield, 
■were  actuated  not  by  a  desire  to  do  evil,  but  (monstrous  as  it  may 
seem)  to  do  good,  —  not  to  counteract,  but  to  enforce  what  they 
believed  the  wishes  of  the  Almighty:  so  that  a  good  intention, 
■without  the  enlightenment  to  direct  it  to  a  fitting  object,  may  be 
as  pernicious  to  human  happiness  as  one  the  most  fiendish.  We 
are  told  of  a  whole  people  who  used  to  murder  their  guests,  not 
from  ferocity  or  interest,  but  from  the  pure  and  praiseworthy 
motive  of  obtaining  the  good  qualities  which  they  believed,  by  tho 
murder  of  the  deceased,  devolved  upon  them. 


140  THE    DISOWNED. 

only  by  oiir  ignorance  are  our  passions  perverted.  There- 
fore, what  followed?  —  that  if  by  ignorance  the  greatest 
of  God's  gifts  had  been  turned  to  evil,  knowledge  alone 
was  the  light  by  which  even  the  pages  of  religion  should 
be  read.  It  f<dlowed  that  the  Providence  that  knew 
that  the  nature  it  had  created  should  be  constantly  in 
exercise,  and  that  only  through  laljor  conies  improve- 
ment, had  wisely  ordained  that  we  should  toil  even  for 
the  blessing  of  its  holiest  and  clearest  laws.  It  had 
given  us,  in  religion,  as  in  this  magnificent  world, 
treasures  and  harvests  which  might  be  called  forth  in 
incalculable  abundance;  but  had  decreed  that  through 
our  exertions  only  should  they  be  called  forth:  a  palace 
more  gorgeous  than  the  palaces  of  enchantment  was 
before  us,  but  its  chambers  were  a  labyrinth  which 
required  a  clew. 

"  What  was  that  clew  ?  "Was  it  to  be  sought  for  in 
the  corners  of  earth,  or  was  it  not  beneficently  centred 
in  ourselves?  Was  it  not  the  exercise  of  a  power  easy 
for  us  to  use,  if  we  would  dare  to  do  so?  Was  it  not 
the  simple  exertion  of  the  discernment  granted  to  us 
for  all  else  ?  Was  it  not  the  exercise  of  our  reason  ? 
'Reason!'  cried  the  zealot:  'pernicious  and  hateful 
instrument,  it  is  fraught  with  peril  to  yourself  and  to 
others;  do  not  think  for  a  moment  of  employing  an 
engine  so  fallacious  and  so  dangerous. '  But  I  listened 
not  to  the  zealot;  could  the  steady  and  bright  torch 
which,  even  where  the  Star  of  Bethlehem  had  withheld 
its  diviner  light,  had  guided  some  patient  and  unwearied 
steps  to  the  very  throne  of  virtue,  become  but  a  deceit- 
ful meteor  to  him  who  kindled  it /or  the  aid  of  religion^ 
and  in  an  eternal  cause?  Could  it  be  perilous  to  task 
our  reason,  even  to  the  utmost,  in  the  investigation  of 
the  true  utility  and   hidden   wisdom  of  the   works  of 


THE    DISOWNED.  141 

God,  when  God  himself  had  ordained  that  only  through 
some  exertion  of  our  reason  should  we  know  either  from 
nature  or  revelation  that  He  himself  existed?  'But,' 
cried  the  zealot  again,  —  '  but  mere  mortal  Avisdom  teaches 
men  presumption,  and  presumption  doubt.'  '  Pardon 
me,'  I  answered,  '  it  is  not  wisdom,  but  ignorance, 
which  teaches  men  presumption;  genius  may  be  some- 
times arrogant,  but  nothing  is  so  diffident  as  knowledge.' 
'But,'  resumed  the  zealot,  '  those  accustomed  to  subtle 
inquiries  may  dwell  only  on  the  minutiae  of  faith,  — 
inexplicable,  because  useless  to  explain  and  argue  from 
those  minutiae  against  the  grand  and  universal  truth.' 
Pardon  me  again:  it  is  the  petty  not  the  enlarged  mind 
which  prefers  casuistry  to  conviction ;  it  is  the  confined 
and  short  sight  of  ignorance  which,  unable  to  compre- 
hend the  great  bearings  of  truth,  pries  only  into  its 
narrow  and  obscure  corners,  occupying  itself  in  scruti- 
nizing the  atoms  of  a  part,  while  the  eagle  eye  of  wisdom 
contemplates,  in  its  widest  scale,  the  luminous  majesty 
of  the  whole.  Survey  our  faults,  our  errors,  our  vices, 
—  fearful  and  fertile  field;  trace  them  to  their  causes: 
all  those  causes  resolve  themselves  into  one,  —  igno- 
rance! For  as  we  have  already  seen  that  from  this 
source  flow  the  abuses  of  religion,  so  also  from  this 
source  flow  the  abuses  of  all  other  blessings,  —  of  talents, 
of  riches,  of  power;  for  we  abuse  things,  either  because 
we  know  not  their  real  use,  or  because,  with  an  equal 
blindness,  we  imagine  the  abuse  more  adapted  to  our 
happiness.  But  as  ignorance,  then,  is  the  sole  spring 
of  evil,  so,  as  the  antidote  to  ignorance  is  knowledge, 
it  necessarily  follows  that,  were  we  consummate  in 
knowledge,  Ave  should  be  perfect  in  good.  He  there- 
fore Avho  retards  the  progress  of  intellect  countenances 
crime, — nay,   to  a  state  is  the  greatest  of  criminals; 


142  THE   DISOW.XED. 

-wliilc  he  who  circulates  that  mental  light  more  precious 
than  the  visual,  is  the  holiest  improver,  and  the  surest 
benefactor  of  his  race!  Xor  let  us  believe,  with  the 
dupes  of  a  shallow  policy,  that  there  exists  upon  the 
earth  07ie  prejudice  that  can  be  called  salutary,  or  o??e 
error  beneficial  to  perpetuate.  As  the  petty  fish  which 
is  fabled  to  possess  the  property  of  arresting  the  progress 
of  the  largest  vessel  to  which  it  clings,  even  so  may  a 
single  prejudice,  unnoticed  or  despised,  more  than  the 
adverse  blast  or  the  dead  calm,  delay  the  bark  of  knowl- 
edge in  the  vast  seas  of  time. 

"  It  is  true  that  the  sanguineness  of  philanthropists 
may  have  carried  them  too  far;  it  is  true  (for  the  ex- 
periment has  not  yet  been  made)  that  God  may  have 
denied  to  us  in  this  state  the  consummation  of  knowledge 
and  the  consequent  perfection  in  good;  but  because  we 
cannot  be  perfect,  are  we  to  resolve  Ave  will  be  evil  ? 
One  step  in  knowledge  is  one  step  from  sin :  one  step 
from  sin  is  one  step  nearer  to  Heaven.  Oh !  never  let 
us  be  deluded  by  those  who,  iox  political  motives,  would 
adulterate  the  divinity  of  religious  truths:  never  let  us 
believe  that  our  Father  in  heaveii  rewards  most  the  one 
talent  unemployed,  or  that  prejudice  and  indolence  and 
folly  find  the  most  favor  in  His  sight!  The  very 
heathen  has  l)equeathed  to  us  a  nobler  estimate  of  His 
nature ;  and  the  same  sentence  which  so  sublimely  de- 
clares '  TKUTH  IS  THE  BODY  OF  GoD,'  declares  also, 
'and  light  is  His  shadow.'^ 

"  Persuaded,  then,  that  knowledge  contained  the  key 
to  virtue,  it  was  to  knowledge  that  I  applied.  The  first 
grand  lesson  which  it  taught  me  was  the  solution  of  a 
phrase  most  hackneyed,  least  understood,  —  namely, 
"^  common  sense.' ''^  It  is  in  the  I'ortico  of  the  Greek 
1  Plato.  2  Ko(«'0fO7)/io(7-v>'7j,  —  Sensus  communis. 


THE   DISOWNED.  143 

sage  that  that  phrase  has  received  its  legitimate  explana- 
tion ;  it  is  there  we  are  taught  that  '  common  sense ' 
signifies  '  the  sense  of  the  common  interest.'  Yes!  it  is 
the  most  beautiful  truth  in  morals  that  we  have  no  such 
thing  as  a  distinct  or  divided  interest  from  our  race.  In 
their  welfare  is  ours;  and  by  choosing  the  broadest 
paths  to  effect  their  happiness,  we  choose  the  surest  and 
the  shortest  to  our  own.  As  I  read  and  pondered  over 
these  truths,  I  was  sensible  that  a  great  change  was 
working  a  fresh  world  out  of  the  former  materials  of  my 
mind.  My  passions,  which  before  I  had  checked  into 
nselessness,  or  exerted  to  destruction,  now  started  forth 
in  a  nobler  shape,  and  prepared  for  a  new  direction: 
instead  of  urging  me  to  individual  aggrandizement,  they 
panted  for  universal  good,  and  coveted  the  reward  of 
ambition  only  for  the  triumphs  of  benevolence. 

"  This  is  one  stage  of  virtue,  —  I  cannot  resist  the 
belief  that  there  is  a  higher :  it  is  when  we  begin  to  love 
virtue,  not  for  its  objects,  but  itself.  For  there  are  in 
knowledge  these  two  excellences:  first,  that  it  ofi'ers  to 
every  man,  the  most  selfish  and  the  most  exalted,  his 
peculiar  inducement   to   good.      It  says  to  the   former, 

*  Serve  mankind,  and  you  serve  yourself; '  to  the  latter, 

*  In  choosing  the  best  means  to  secure  your  own  happi- 
ness, you  will  have  the  sublime  inducement  of  promoting 
the  happiness  of  mankind. ' 

"  The  second  excellence  of  knowledge  is  that  even 
the  selfish  man,  when  he  has  once  begun  to  loA'e  vir- 
tue from  little  motives,  loses  the  motives  as  he  in- 
creases the  love;  and  at  last  worships  the  deity,  where 
before  he  only  coveted  the  gold  upon  its  altar.  And 
thus  I  learned  to  love  virtue  solely  for  its  own  beauty. 
I  said  with  one  who,  among  much  dross,  has  many 
particles  of  ore,  *  If  it  be  not  estimable  in  itself,  I  can 


144  THE    DISOWJSIKD. 

see  nothing  estimalile  in  following  it  for  the  sake  of  a 
bargain. ' ^ 

"  I  looked  round  the  world,  and  saw  often  virtue  in 
rags,  and  vice  in  purple :  the  former  conduces  to  happi- 
ness, it  is  true,  but  the  happiness  lies  xvithin,  and  not 
in  externals.  I  contemned  the  deceitful  folly  with 
which  writers  have  termed  it  poetical  justice  to  make 
the  good  ultimately  prosperous  in  wealth,  honor,  fortu- 
nate love,  or  successful  desires.  Nothing  false,  even  in 
poetry,  can  be  just;  and  that  pretended  moral  is,  of  all, 
the  falsest.  Virtue  is  not  more  exempt  than  vice  from 
the  ills  of  fate,  but  it  contains  within  itself  always  an 
energy  to  resist  them,  and  sometimes  an  anodyne  to 
soothe,  —  to  repay  your  quotation  from  Tibullus: 

'  Crura  sonant  ferro,  —  sed  canit  inter  opus  ! '  2 

"  When  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  I  set  up  that 
divinity  of  this  nether  eartli  which  Brutus  never  really 
understood,  if,  because  unsuccessful  in  its  ett'orts,  he 
doubted  its  existence,  1  said  in  the  proud  prayer  with 
which  I  worshipped  it,  '  Poverty  may  humble  my  lot, 
but  it  shall  not  debase  thee ;  temptation  may  shake  my 
nature,  but  not  the  rock  on  which  thy  temple  is  based ; 
misfortune  may  wither  all  the  hopes  that  have  blos- 
somed around  thine  altar,  but  I  will  sacrifice  dead  leaves 
when  the  flowers  are  no  more.  Though  all  that  I  have 
loved  perish,  — all  that  I  have  coveted  fade  away,  I  may 
murmur  at  fate;  but  I  will  have  no  voice  but  that  of 
homage  for  thee!  Xor,  while  thou  smilest  upon  my 
way,  would  I  exchange  with  the  loftiest  and  happiest  of 
thy  foes!  More  bitter  than  aught  of  what  I  then  dreamed 
have  been  my  trials,  but  I  have  fulfilled  my  voiv  !  ' 

1  Lord  Sliaftosl)nry 

*  The  chains  dank  on  its  limbs,  but  it  sings  amidst  its  tasks. 


THE   DISOWNED.  145 

"  I  believe  that  alone  to  be  a  true  description  of  virtue, 
which  makes  it  all-sufficient  to  itself,  —  that  alone  a  just 
portraiture  of  its  excellence,  which  does  not  lessen  its 
internal  power  by  exaggerating  its  outward  advantages, 
nor  degrade  its  nobility  by  dwelling  only  on  its  rewards. 
The  grandest  moral  of  ancient  lore  has  ever  seemed  to 
nie  that  which  the  picture  of  Prometheus  affords:  in 
whom  neither  the  shaking  earth,  nor  the  rending  heaven, 
nor  the  rock  without,  nor  the  vultixre  within,  could  cause 
regret  for  past  benevolence,  or  terror  for  future  evil,  or 
envy,  even  amidst  tortures  for  the  dishonorable  prosperity 
of  his  insulter!  ^  Who,  that  has  glowed  over  this  exalted 
picture,  will  tell  us  that  we  must  make  virtue  prosper- 
ous in  order  to  allure  to  it,  or  clothe  vice  with  misery 
in  order  to  revolt  us  from  its  image!  Oh!  who,  on  the 
contrary,  Avould  not  learn  to  adore  virtue,  from  the  bit- 
terest sufferings  of  such  a  votary,  a  hundredfold  more 
than  he  would  learn  to  love  vice  from  the  gaudiest 
triumphs  of  its  most  fortunate  disciples?" 

Something  tliere  was  in  Mordaunt's  voice  and  air, 
and  the  impassioned  glow  of  his  countenance,  that, 
long  after  he  had  ceased,  thrilled  in  Clarence's  heart, 
"like  the  remembered  tone  of  a  mute  lyre."  And, 
when  a  subsequent  event  led  him  at  rash  moments  to 
doubt  whether  virtue  was  indeed  the  chief  good.  Linden 
recalled  the  words  of  that  night,  and  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  they  were  uttered,  repented  that  in  his 
doubt  he  had  wronged  the  truth,  and  felt  that  there 
is  a  power  in  the  deep  heart  of  man  to  which  even 
destiny  is  submitted! 

1  Mercury,  —  See  the  "  Prometheus  "  of  iEschylua. 


VOL.  II.  —  10 


146  THE   DISOWNED. 

CHAPTER   LXIII. 

Will  you  hear  the  letter  1 

This  is  the  motley  minded  gentleman  that  I  have  before  met  in  the 
forest. 

As  You  Like  It. 

A  MORNING  or  two  after  the  conversation  "witli  which 
our  last  chapter  concluded,  Clarence  received  the 
following  letter  from  the  Duke  of  Haverfield :  — 

Your  letter,  my  dear  Linden,  would  have  been  answered 
before,  but  for  an  occurrence  which  is  generally  supposed  to 
engross  the  whole  attention  of  the  persons  concerned  in  it. 
Let  me  see  :  ay,  three,  yes,  I  have  been  exactly  three  days  mar- 
ried! Upon  my  honor,  there  is  much  less  in  the  event  than 
one  would  imagine  ;  and  the  next  time  it  happens,  I  will  not 
put  myself  to  such  amazing  trouble  and  inconvenience  about 
it.  But  one  buys  wisdom  only  by  experience.  Now,  however, 
that  I  have  communicated  to  you  the  fiict,  I  expect  you,  in  the 
first  place,  to  excuse  my  negligence  for  not  writing  before  ;  for 
(as  I  know  you  are  fond  of  the  literm  humanio.-es,  1  will  give 
the  sentiment  the  dignity  of  a  quotation)  — 

"  Un  veritable  amant  ne  conuait  point  d'amis ; "  ^ 
and  though  I  have  been  three  days  married,  I  am  still  a  lover! 
In  the  second  place,  I  expect  you  to  be  very  grateful  that,  all 
things  considered,  I  write  to  you  so  soon  ;  it  would  indeed  not 
be  an  ordinary  inducement  that  could  make  me  "  put  pen  to 
paper  "  (is  not  that  the  true  vulgar,  commercid,  academical, 
metaphorical,  epistolary  style  ?)  so  shortly  after  the  fatal 
ceremony.  So,  had  I  nothing  to  say  but  in  reply  to  your  com- 
ments on  state  affairs  (hang  them  I  1, — or  in  applause  of 
your  Itali  in  friend,  of  whom  I  say,  as  Charles  II.  said  of  the 

^  A  true  lover  recognizes  no  friends.  —  Corneille, 


THE   DISOWNED.  147 

fione?t  yeoman,  "  I  can  ailmire  virtue,  thou;_;h  I  can't  imitate 
it  !"  I  think  it  highly  probable  that  your  letter  might  still 
remain  in  a  certain  box  of  tortoiseshell  and  gold  (formerly  be- 
longing to  the  great  Richelieu,  and  now  in  my  possession),  in 
which  I  at  this  instant  descry,  "  with  many  a  glance  of  woe 
and  boding  dire,"  sundry  epistles,  in  manifold  handwritings,  all 
classed  under  the  one  fearful  denomination,  —  "  unanswered." 

No,  my  good  Linden,  my  heart  is  inditing  of  a  better  matter 
than  this.  Listen  to  me,  and  then  stay  at  your  host's,  or  order 
your  swiftest  steed,  as  seems  most  meet  to  you. 

You  said  rightly  that  Miss  Trevanion,  now  her  Grace  of 
Haverfield,  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Lady  Flora  Ardenne.  I 
have  often  talked  to  her  —  namely,  Eleanor,  not  Lady  Flora  — 
about  you,  and  was  renewing  the  con\-ersation  yesterday,  when 
your  letter,  accidentally  lying  before  me,  reminded  me  of  you. 
Sundry  little  secrets  passed,  in  due  conjugal  course,  from  her 
possession  into  mine.  I  find  that  you  have  been  believed,  by 
Lady  Flora,  to  have  played  the  perfidious  with  La  Meronville, 
• —  that  she  never  knew  of  your  application  to  her  father,  and 
his  reply ;  that,  on  the  contrary,  she  accused  you  of  indiffer- 
ence in  going  abroad  without  attempting  to  obtain  an  interview, 
or  excuse  your  supposed  infidelity;  that  her  heart  is  utterly 
averse  to  a  union  with  that  odi(nis  Lord  Boro  —  bah  —  I  mean 
Lord  Ulswater  ;  and  that  —  prejiare.  Linden  —  she  still  cher- 
ishes your  memory,  even  through  time,  change,  and  fancied 
desertion,  with  a  tenderness  which  —  which  —  deuce  take  it, 
I  never  could  write  sentiment  —  but  you  understand  me,  so  I 
will  not  conclude  the  phrase.     "  Nothing  in  oratory,"  said  my 

cousin.  D ,  who  was,  enire  nous,  more  honest  than  eloquent, 

"  like  a  break,"  —  "doum  !  you  should  have  added,"  said  L 

I  now,  my  dear  Linden,  leave  you  to  your  fate.  For  my 
part,  though  I  own  Lord  Ulswater  is  a  lord  whom  ladies  in 
love  with  the  etcasteras  of  married  pomp  might  well  desire,  yet 
I  do  think  it  would  be  no  ditiicult  matter  for  you  to  eclipse 
him  !  I  cannot,  it  is  true,  advise  you  to  run  away  with  Lady 
Flora.  Gentlemen  don't  run  away  with  the  daughters  of  gen- 
tlemen; but.  without  running  away,  you  may  win  your  be- 
trothed and  Lord  Ulswater's  intended.     A  distinguished  mem- 


148  THE    DISOWNED. 

ber  of  tlje  House  of  Commons,  owner  of  Scarsilalo,  and 
representative  of  the  most  ancient  branch  of  the  Talhuts, — 
mon  Dieu  !  you  mi>,'ht  marry  a  queen  tlo\vajj;er,  and  decline 
settlements  I 

And  so,  committing  thee  to  the  guidance  of  tliat  winged 
god  who,  if  three  days  afford  any  experience,  has  made  thy 
friend  forsake  pleasure  only  to  fiud  happiness,  I  bid  thee, 
most  gentle  Linden,  farewell. 

Haverfield. 

Upon  reading  this  letter,  Clarence  felt  as  a  man  sud- 
denly transformed.  From  an  exterior  of  calm  and 
apathy,  at  the  bottom  of  which  lay  one  bitter  and  cor- 
roding recollection,  he  passed  at  once  into  a  state  of 
emotion,  wild,  agitated,  and  confused;  yet,  amidst  all, 
was  foremost  a  burning  and  intense  hope,  which  for 
long  years  he  had  not  permitted  himself  to  form. 

He  descended  into  the  breakfast-parlor,  Mordaunt, 
whose  hours  of  appearing,  though  not  of  rising,  were 
much  later  than  Clarence's,  was  not  yet  down ;  and  our 
lover  had  full  leisure  to  form  his  plans  before  his  host 
made  his  entree. 

"Will  you  ride  to-day  ? "  said  Mordaunt:  "there  are 
some  old  ruins  in  the  neighborhood,  well  worth  the 
trouble  of  a  visit." 

"I  grieve  to  say,"  answered  Clarence,  "that  I  must 
take  my  leave  of  you.  I  have  received  intelligence  this 
morning  which  may  greatly  influence  my  future  life, 
and  by  which  I  am  obliged  to  make  an  excursion  to 
another  part  of  the  country,  nearly  a  day's  journey,  on 
horseback. " 

]\rordnunt  looked  nt  his  guest,  and  conjectured  by  his 
heightened  color,  and  an  embarrassment  which  he  in  vain 
endeavored  to  conceal,  that  the  journey  might  have  some 
cause  for  its  suddenness  and  despatch  which  the  young 


THE   DISOWNED.  149 

senator  had  his  peculiar  reasons  for  concealing.  Alger- 
non contented,  himself,  therefore,  with  expressing  his 
regret  at  Linden's  abrupt  departure,  without  incurring 
the  indiscreet  hospitality  of  pressing  a  longer  sojourn 
beneath  his  roof. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  Clarence's  horse  was 
brought  to  the  door,  and  Harrison  receiA^ed  orders  to 
wait  with  the  carriage  at  W until  his  master  re- 
turned. Not  a  little  surprised,  we  trow,  was  the  worthy 
valet  at  his  master's  sudden  attachment  to  equestrian 
excursions.  Mordaunt  accompanied  his  visitor  through 
the  park,  and  took  leave  of  him  with  a  warmth  which 
sensibly  touched  Clarence,  in  spite  of  the  absence  and 
excitement  of  his  thoughts;  indeed,  the  unaffected  and 
simple  character  of  Linden,  joined  to  his  acute,  bold, 
and  cultivated  mind,  had  taken  strong  hold  of  Mor- 
daunt's  interest  and  esteem. 

It  was  a  mild  autumnal  morning,  but  thick  clouds  in 
the  rear  prognosticated  rain;  and  the  stillness  of  the 
wind,  the  low  flight  of  the  swallows,  and  the  lowing  of 
the  cattle  slowly  gathering  towards  the  nearest  shelter 
within  their  appointed  boundaries,  confirmed  the  inau- 
spicious omen.     Clarence  had  passed  the  town  of  W , 

and  was  entering  into  a  road  singularly  hilly,  when  he 
"  was  aware,"  as  the  quaint  old  writers  of  former  days 
expressed  themselves,  of  a  tall  stranger,  mounted  on  a 
neat,  well-trimmed  galloway,  who  had  for  the  last  two 
minutes  been  advancing  towards  a  closely  parallel  line 
with  Clarence,  and  had,  by  sundry  glances  and  hems, 
denoted  a  desire  of  commencing  acquaintance  and  con- 
versation with  his  fellow-traveller. 

At  last  he  summoned  courage,  and  said,  with  a  respect- 
ful though  somewhat  free  air,  "  That  is  a  very  fine  horse 
of  yours,  sir,  —  I  have  seldom  seen  so  fast  a  walker:  if 


150  THE    DISOWNED. 

all  his  other  paces  are  equally  good,  lie  must  be  quite  a 
treasure." 

All  men  have  their  vanities.  Clarence's  was  as  nuich 
in  his  horse's  excellences  as  his  OAvn ;  and  gratified 
even  with  the  compliment  of  a  stranger,  he  replied  to  it 
by  joining  in  the  praise,  though  with  a  modest  and 
measured  forbearance,  which  the  stranger,  if  gifted 
with  penetration,  could  easily  have  discerned  was  more 
affected  than  sincere. 

"And  yet,  sir,"  resumed  Clarence's  new  companion, 
"  my  little  palfrey  might  perhaps  keep  pace  Avitli  your 
steed;  look:  I  lay  the  rein  on  his  neck,  —  and,  you  see, 
he  rivals;  by  Heaven,  he  ojit walks  yours." 

Not  a  little  piqued  and  incensed.  Linden  also  relaxed 
his  rein,  and  urged  his  horse  to  a  quicker  step;  but  the 
lesser  competitor  not  only  sustained,  but  increased  his 
superiority ;  and  it  was  only  by  breaking  into  a  trot  that 
Linden's  impatient  and  spirited  steed  could  overtake 
him.  Hitherto  Clarence  had  not  honored  his  new  com- 
panion with  more  than  a  rapid  and  slight  glance ;  but 
rivalry  even  in  trifles  begets  respect,  and  our  defeated 
hero  now  examined  him  witli  a  more  curious  eye. 

The  stranger  was  between  forty  and  fifty,  —  an  age 
in  which,  generally,  very  little  of  the  boy  has  survived 
the  advance  of  manhood;  yet  there  was  a  hearty  and 
frank  exhilaration  in  the  manner  and  look  of  the  person 
we  describe  which  is  rarely  found  beyond  the  first  stage 
of  youth.  His  features  were  comely  and  clearly  cut, 
and  his  air  and  appearance  indicative  of  a  man  who 
might  equally  have  belonged  to  the  middle  or  the 
upper  orders.  But  Clarence's  memory,  as  well  as  at- 
tention, was  employed  in  his  survey  of  the  stranger;  and 
he  recognized,  in  a  countenance  on  which  time  had 
passed   very    lightly,  an    old   and  ofttimes  recalled  ac- 


THE   DISOWNED.  151 

quaintance.  However,  he  did  not  immediately  make 
himself  known.  "  I  will  first  see,"  thought  he,  "  whether 
he  can  remember  his  young  guest  in  the  bronzed  stran- 
ger, after  eight  years'  absence. 

"Well,"  said  Clarence,  as  he  approached  the  owner 
of  the  palfrey,  who  was  laughing  with  childish  glee  at 
his  conquest,  —  "  well,  you  have  won,  sir;  but  the  tor- 
toise might  beat  the  hare  in  walking,  and  I  content  my- 
self with  thinking  that  at  a  trot  or  a  gallop  the  result 
of  a  race  would  have  been  very  different. " 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,  sir,"  said  the  sturdy  stran- 
ger, patting  the  arched  neck  of  his  little  favorite :  "  if 
you  would  like  to  try  either  I  should  have  no  objection 
to  venture  a  trifling  wager  on  the  event. " 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Clarence,  with  a  smile,  in 
which  urbanity  was  a  little  mingled  with  contemptuous 
incredulity;  "  but  I  am  not  now  at  leisure  to  win  your 
money.  I  have  a  long  day's  journey  before  me,  and 
must  not  tire  a  faithful  servant;  yet  I  do  candidly  con- 
fess that  I  think "  (and  Clarence's  recollection  of  the 
person  he  addressed  made  him  introduce  the  quotation) 
"  that  my  horse 

'  Excels  a  common  one 
In  shape,  in  courage,  color,  face,  and  bone.' " 

"  Eh,  sir!  "  cried  our  stranger,  as  his  eyes  sparkled  at 
the  verses :  "  I  would  own  that  your  horse  were  worth 
all  the  horses  in  the  kingdom,  if  you  brought  Will 
Shakespeare  to  prove  it.  And  I  am  also  willing  to 
confess  that  your  steed  does  fairly  merit  the  splendid 
praise  which  follows  the  lines  you  have  quoted,  — 

'Round-hoofed,  short-jointed,  fetlocks  shag  and  long, 
Broad  breast,  full  eyes,  small  head,  and  nostril  wide, 
High  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs,  and  passing  strong, 
Thin  niaue,  thick  tail,  broad  buttock,  tender  hide.' " 


152  TUE   DISOWNED. 

"  Come,"  said  Clarence,  "  your  memory  has  atoned  for 
your  horse's  victory,  and  I  quite  forgive  your  conquest 
in  return  for  your  compliment;  but  sulfer  me  to  ask  how 
long  you  have  commenced  cavalier.  The  Aral)'s  tent  is, 
if  1  err  not,  more  a  badge  of  your  profession  than  the 
Arab's  steed." 

King  Cole  (for  the  stranger  was  no  less  a  person) 
looked  at  his  companion  in  surprise.  "  So  you  know 
me,  then,  sir!  Well,  it  is  a  hard  thing  for  a  man  to  turn 
honest,  Avhen  people  have  so  much  readier  a  recollection 
of  his  sins  than  his  reform. " 

"Eeform!''  quoth  Clarence;  **  am  T  then  to  under- 
stand that  your  majesty  has  abdicated  your  dominions 
under  the  greenwood  tree  ?  " 

"  You  are,"  said  Cole,  eying  his  acquaintance  in- 
quisitively, —  "  you  are. 

/  fear  no  more  tlie  lieat  of  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
I  my  worldly  task  have  done, 
Home  am  gone  and  ta'en  my  wages.* 

"I  congratulate  you,"  said  Clarence;  "but  only  in 
part,  —  for  I  have  often  envied  your  past  state,  and  do 
not  know  enough  of  your  present  to  say  whether  I  should 
equally  envy  that." 

"Why,"  answered  Cole,  "  after  all,  we  commit  a  great 
error  in  imagining  that  it  is  the  living  wood  or  the  dead 
Avail  which  makes  happiness.  '  My  7imid  to  me  a  king- 
dom is,'  —  and  it  is  that  which  you  must  envy,  if  you 
honor  anything  belonging  to  me  with  that  feeling." 

"  The  precept  is  both  good  and  old,"  answered  Clar- 
ence ;  "  yet  I  think  it  was  not  a  very  favorite  maxim  of 
yours  some  years  ago.  I  remember  a  time  wlien  you 
thought   no   happiness    could  exist   out  of  '  dingle  and 


THE   DISOWNED.  153 

bosky  dell. '  If  not  very  intrusive  on  your  secrets,  may 
I  know  how  long  you  have  changed  your  sentiments  and 
manner  of  life  1  The  reason  of  the  change  I  dare  not 
presume  to  ask, " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  quondam  gypsy,  musingly,  — 
"  certainly  I  have  seen  your  face  before,  and  even  the 
tone  of  your  voice  strikes  me  as  not  wholly  unfamiliar; 
yet  I  cannot,  for  the  life  of  me,  guess  whom  I  have  the 
honor  of  addressing.  However,  sir,  I  have  no  hesita- 
tion in  answering  your  questions.  It  was  just  five  years 
ago  last  summer,  when  I  left  the  tents  of  Kedar.  I 
now  reside  about  a  mile  hence.  It  is  but  a  hundred 
yards  off  the  highroad,  and  if  you  would  not  object  to 
step  aside  and  suffer  a  rasher,  or  aught  else,  to  be  '  the 
shoeing-horn  to  draw  on  a  cup  of  ale,'  as  our  plain 
forefathers  were  wont  wittily  to  say,  why,  I  shall  be 
very  happy  to  show  you  my  habitation.  You  will  have 
a  double  welcome,  from  the  circumstance  of  my  having 
been  absent  from  home  for  the  last  three  days." 

Clarence,  mindful  of  his  journey,  was  about  to  decline 
the  invitation,  when  a  few  heavy  drops  falling,  began 
to  fulfil  the  cloudy  promise  of  the  morning.  "  Trust," 
said  Cole,  "  one  who  has  been  for  years  a  watcher  of  the 
signs  and  menaces  of  the  weather,  —  we  shall  have  a 
violent  shower  immediately.  You  have  now  no  choice 
but  to  accompany  me  home." 

"  Well,"  said  Clarence,  yielding  with  a  good  grace, 
"  I  am  glad  of  so  good  an  excuse  for  intruding  on  your 
hospitality. 

'0,  sky! 
Why  didst  thou  promise  such  a  beauteous  day, 
And  make  me  travel  forth  without  my  cloak ! '  " 

"Bravo!  "  cried  the  ex-chief,  too  delighted  to  find  a 
comrade  so  well  acquainted  with  Shakespeare's  sonnets 


154  THE   DISOWNED. 

to  heed  the  little,  injustice  Clarence  had  done  the  sky, 
in  accusing  it  of  a  treachery  its  black  clouds  had  by  no 
means  deserved.  "  Bravo,  sir;  and  vow,  my  palfrey 
against  your  steed:  trot,  —  eh,  or  gallop ?  " 

"  Trot,  if  it  must  be  so,"  said  Clarence,  superciliously  : 
"  but  I  am  a  few  paces  before  you. " 

"  So  much  the  better,"  cried  the  jovial  chief.  "  Little 
John's  mettle  will  be  the  more  up:  on  with  you,  sir; 
he  who  breaks  into  a  canter  loses,  —  on !  " 

And  Clarence  slightly  touching  his  beautiful  steed, 
the  race  was  begun.  At  first  his  horse,  wliich  was  a 
remarkable  stepper,  as  the  modern  Messrs.  Anderson  and 
Dyson  would  say,  greatly  gained  the  advantage.  "  To 
the  right,"  cried  the  ci-deiHint  gypsy,  as  Linden  had 
nearly  passed  a  narrow  lane  which  led  to  the  domain  of 
the  ex-king.  The  turn  gave  "  Little  John  "  an  oppor- 
tunity which  he  seized  to  advantage;  and  to  Clarence's 
indignant  surprise,  he  beheld  Cole  now  close  behind  — 
now  beside  —  and  now  —  now  —  before  !  In  the  heat  of 
the  moment  he  put  spurs  rather  too  sharply  to  his  horse, 
and  the  spirited  animal  immediately  passed  his  competi- 
tor —  but  —  in  a  canter ! 

"Victoria,"  cried  Cole,  keeping  back  his  own  steed, 
—  "  Victoria :  confess  it !  " 

"  Pshaw,"  said  Clarence,  petulantly. 

"  Nay,  sir,  never  mind  it,"  quoth  the  retired  sover- 
eign; "perhaps  it  was  but  a  venial  transgression  of  your 
horse,  —  and  on  other  ground  I  should  not  have  beaten 
you." 

It  is  very  easy  to  he  generotis  when  one  is  quite  sure 
one  is  the  victor.  Clarence  felt  this,  an<i  muttering  out 
something  about  the  sharp  angle  in  the  road,  turned 
abruptly  from  all  further  comment  on  the  subject,  by 
saying,  "  We  are  now,  I  suppose,  entering  your  territory. 


THE    DISOWNED.  155 

Does  not  this  white  gate  lead  to  your  new  (at  least  new 
to  me)  abode  ?  " 

"It  does,"  replied  Cole,  opening  the  said  gate,  and 
pausing  as  if  to  suffer  his  guest  and  rival  to  look  round 
and  admire. 

The  house,  in  full  view,  was  of  red  brick,  small  and 
square,  faced  with  stone  copings,  and  adorned  in  the 
centre  with  a  gable  roof,  on  which  was  a  ball  of  glitter- 
ing metal.  A  flight  of  stone  steps  led  to  the  porch, 
which  was  of  fair  size  and  stately,  considering  the  pro- 
portions of  the  mansion,  —  over  the  door  was  a  stone 
shield  of  arms,  surmounted  by  a  stag's  head;  and  above 
this  heraldic  ornament  was  a  window  of  great  breadth, 
compared  to  the  other  conveniences  of  a  similar  nature. 
On  either  side  of  the  house  ran  a  slight  iron  fence,  the 
protection  of  sundry  plots  of  gay  flowers  and  garden 
shrubs,  while  two  peacocks  were  seen  slowly  stalking 
towards  the  enclosure  to  seek  a  shelter  from  the  increas- 
ing shower.  At  the  back  of  the  building,  thick  trees 
and  a  rising  hill  gave  a  meet  defence  from  the  winds  of 
winter;  and  in  front  a  sloping  and  small  lawn  afforded 
pasture  for  a  few  sheep  and  two  pet  deer.  Toward  the 
end  of  this  lawn  were  two  large  fishponds,  shaded  by 
rows  of  feathered  trees.  On  the  margin  of  each  of  these, 
as  if  emblematic  of  ancient  customs,  was  a  common 
tent;  and  in  the  intermediate  space  was  a  rustic  pleasure- 
house,  fenced  from  the  encroaching  cattle,  and  half  hid 
by  surrounding  laurel  and  the  parasite  ivy. 

Altogether,  there  was  a  quiet  and  old-fashioned  com- 
fort, and  even  luxury,  about  the  place,  which  suited  well 
with  the  eccentric  character  of  the  abdicated  chief ;  and 
Clarence,  as  he  gazed  around,  really  felt  that  he  might, 
perhaps,  deem  the  last  state  of  the  owner  not  worse  than 
the  first. 


156  THE   DISOWNED. 

Unmindful  of  the  rain,  wliicli  now  hegan  to  pour  fast 
and  full,  Cole  suffered  "  Little  John's  "  rein  to  fall  over 
his  neck,  and  the  spoiled  favorite  to  pluck  the  smooth 
grass  beneath,  while  he  pointed  out  to  Clarence  the 
various  beauties  of  his  seat. 

"There,  sir,"  said  he;  "by  those  ponds  in  which,  I 
assure  you,  old  Isaac  might  have  fished  with  delight, 
I  pass  many  a  summer's  day.  I  was  always  a  lover 
of  the  angle,  and  the  farthest  pool  is  the  most  beau- 
tiful bathing-place  imaginable:  as  glorious  Geoffrey 
Chaucer  says, — 

'  The  gravel 's  gold  ;  the  water  pure  as  glass 
The  bankes  round  the  well  environing; 
And  softe  as  velvet  the  younge  grass 
That  thereupon  lustily  come  springing.' 

"  And  in  that  arbor,  Lucy  —  that  is,  my  wife  —  sits  in 
the  summer  evenings  with  her  father  and  our  children ; 
and  then  —  ah !  see  our  pets  come  to  welcome  me ,"  — 
pointing  to  the  deer,  who  had  advanced  within  a  few 
yards  of  him,  but,  intimidated  by  the  stranger,  would  not 
venture  within  reach :  "  Lucy  loved  choosing  her  favor- 
ites among  animals  which  had  formerly  been  wild,  and, 
faith,  I  loved  it  too.  But  you  observe  the  house,  sir, — 
it  was  built  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne;  it  belonged  to 
my  mother's  family,  but  my  father  sold  it,  and  his  son 
five  years  ago  rebought  it.  Those  arms  belong  to  my 
maternal  ancestry.  Look  —  look  at  the  peacocks  creeping 
along:  poor  pride  theirs  that  can't  stand  the  shower! 
But,  ogad,  that  reminds  me  of  the  rain.  Come,  sir,  let 
us  make  for  our  shelter."  And  resuming  their  progress, 
a  minute  more  brought  them  to  the  old-fashioned  porch. 
Cole's  ring  summoned  a  man,  not  decked  in  "  livery 
gay,"  but,  "  clad  in  serving  frock,"  who  took  the  horses 


THE   DISOWNED.  157 

with  a  nod,  half  familiar,  half  respectful,  at  his  master's 
injunctions  of  attention  and  hospitality  to  the  stranger's 
beast;  and  then  our  old  acquaintance,  striking  through 
a  small  low  hall,  ushered  Clarence  into  the  chief  sitting- 
room  of  the  mansion. 


158  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LXIV. 

We  are  not  poor  ;  altliough  we  have 
No  ruofs  of  cedar,  uor  our  brave 

liaiie,  nor  keep 
Account  of  sucli  a  fiock  of  slieep, 

Nor  bullocks  fed 
To  lard  the  shambles  ;  barbies  bred 
To  kiss  our  bauds  ;  nor  do  we  wish 
For  Pollio's  lauipries  in  our  dish. 

If  w^e  can  meet  and  so  confer 
Both  by  a  shining  salt-cellar, 

And  have  our  roof, 
Although  not  arched,  yet  weather-proof: 

And  ceiling  free 
From  that  cheap  candle-bawdery  ; 
We  '11  eat  our  bean  with  that  full  mirth 
As  we  were  lords  of  all  the  earth. 

HKUKicK,y;o»j  Horace. 

On  entering  the  room,  Clarence  recognized  Lucy,  whom 
eight  year.s  had  converted  into  a  sleek  and  portly  matron 
of  about  thirty-two,  without  stealing  from  her  counte- 
nance its  original  expression  of  mingled  modesty  and 
good-nature.  She  hastened  to  meet  her  husband  with 
an  eager  and  joyous  air  of  welcome  seldom  seen  on 
matrimonial  faces  after  so  many  years  of  wedlock. 

A  fine,  stout  boy,  of  about  eleven  years  old,  left  a 
cross-bow,  which,  on  his  father's  entrance,  he  had  ap- 
peared earnestly  employed  in  mending,  to  share  with 
his  mother  the  salutations  of  the  Returned.  An  old 
man  sat  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  gazing  on  the  three 
with  an  aff'ectionate  and  gladdening  eye,  and  playfully 


THE   DISOWNED.  159 

detaining  a  child  of  aboi;t  four  years  old,  who  was 
struggling  to  escape  to  dear  "  papa !  " 

The  room  was  of  oak  wainscot,  and  the  furniture 
lilain,  solid,  and  strong,  and  cast  in  the  fashion  still 
frequently  found  in  those  country-houses  which  have 
remained  unaltered  by  innovation  siiice  the  days  of 
George  II. 

Three  rough-coated  dogs,  of  a  breed  that  would  have 
puzzled  a  connoisseur,  gave  themselves  the  rousing  shake, 
and  deserting  the  luxurious  hearth,  came  in  various 
welcome  to  their  master.  One  rubbed  himself  against 
Cole's  sturdy  legs,  murmuring  soft  rejoicings:  he  was 
the  grandsire  of  the  canine  race,  and  his  wick  of  life 
burned  low  in  the  socket.  Another  sprang  up  almost  to 
the  face  of  his  master,  and  yelled  his  very  heart  out  with 
joy :  that  was  the  son,  exulting  in  the  vigor  of  matured 
doghood  !  —  and  the  third  scrambled  and  tumbled  over 
the  others,  uttering  his  paeans  in  a  shrill  treble,  and 
chiding  most  snappishly  at  his  two  progenitors  for  in- 
terfering with  his  pretensions  to  notice :  that  was  the 
infant  dog,  the  little  reveller  in  puppy  childishness! 
Clarence  stood  by  the  door,  with  his  fine  countenance 
smiling  benevolently  at  the  happiness  he  beheld,  and 
congratulating  himself  that,  for  one  moment,  the  group 
had  forgotten  that  he  was  a  stranger. 

As  soon  as  our  gypsy  friend  had  kissed  his  wife, 
shaken  hands  with  his  eldest  hope,  shaken  his  head  at 
his  youngest,  smiled  his  salutation  at  the  father-in-law, 
and  patted  into  silence  the  canine  claimants  of  his  favor, 
he  turned  to  Clarence,  and  saying,  half  bashfully,  half 
good-humoredly,  "  See  what  a  troublesome  thing  it  is  to 
return  home,  even  after  three  days'  absence.  Lucy, 
dearest,  welcome  a  new  friend!  "  he  placed  a  chair  by  the 
fireside  for  his  guest,  and  motioned  him  to  be  seated. 


160  THE   DISOWNED. 

The  chief  expression  of  Clarence's  open  and  bold 
countenance  was  centred  in  the  eyes  and  forehead ;  and 
as  he  now  doflfed  his  hat,  which  had  hitherto  concealed 
that  expression,  Lucy  and  her  husLand  recognized  him 
simultaneously. 

"  I  am  sure,  sir,"  cried  the  former,  "that  I  am  glad 
to  see  you  once  more !  " 

"Ah!  ray  young  guest  under  the  gypsy-awning!  " 
exclaimed  the  latter,  shaking  him  heartily  by  the  hand: 
"  wliere  were  my  eyes  that  they  did  not  recognize  you 
before?" 

"Eight  years,"  answered  Clarence,  "have  worked 
more  change  with  me  and  my  friend  here  "  (pointing 
to  the  boy ,  whom  he  had  left  last  so  mere  a  child)  "  than 
they  have  with  you  and  his  blooming  mother.  The 
wonder  is,  not  that  you  did  not  remember  me  before, 
but  that  you  remember  me  now!  " 

"  You  are  altered,  sir,  certainly,"  said  the  frank  chief. 
"Your  face  is  thinner,  and  far  graver;  and  the  smooth 
cheeks  of  the  boy  (for,  craving  your  pardon,  you  were 
little  more  then)  are  somewhat  darkened  by  the  bronzed 
complexion  with  which  time  honors  the  man." 

And  the  good  Cole  sighed,  as  he  contrasted  Linden's 
ardent  countenance  and  elastic  figure,  when  he  had  last 
beheld  him,  with  the  serious  and  thoughtful  face  of  the 
person  now  before  him;  yet  did  he  inly  own  that  years, 
if  they  had  in  some  things  deteriorated  from,  had  in 
others  improved  the  etiect  of  Clarence's  appearance :  they 
had  brought  decision  to  his  mien  and  command  to  his 
brow,  and  had  enlarged,  to  an  ampler  measure  of  dig- 
nity and  power,  the  proportions  of  his  form.  Some- 
thing too  there  was  in  his  look,  like  that  of  a  man  who 
has  stemmed  fate,  and  won  success;  and  the  omen  of 
future   triumph,  which    our   fortune-telling   chief    had 


THE   DISOWNED.  IGl 

drawji  from  his  features,  when  first  beheld,  seemed 
already,   in  no  small  degree,  to  have  been  fulfilled. 

Having  seen  her  guest  stationed  in  the  seat  of  honor 
opposite  her  father,  Lucy  withdrew  for  a  few  moments, 
and  when  she  reappeared,  was  followed  by  a  neat-handed 
sort  of  Phillis  for  a  country -maiden,  bearing  such  kind 
of  "  savory  messes  "  as  the  house  might  be  supposed  to 
afford. 

"  At  all  events,  mine  host,"  said  Clarence,  "  you  did 
not  desert  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt  when  you  forsook  its 
tents. " 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  worthy  Cole,  seating  himself  at  the 
table ;  "  either  under  the  roof  or  the  awning,  we  may 
say,  in  the  words  of  the  old  epilogue,^ 

'  We  can  but  bring  you  meat  and  set  you  stools, 
And  to  our  best  cheer  say,  You  all  are  welcome.' 

We  are  plain  people  still ;  but  if  you  can  stay  till 
dinner,  you  shall  have  a  bottle  of  such  wine  as  our 
fathers'  honest  souls  would  have  rejoiced  in." 

"  I  am  truly  sorry  that  I  cannot  tarry  with  you,  after 
so  fair  a  promise,"  replied  Clarence;  "  but  before  night 
I  must  be  many  miles  hence." 

Lucy  came  forward  timidly.  "  Do  you  remember  this 
ring,  sir?"  said  she  (presenting  one);  "you  dropped  it 
in  my  boy's  frock,  when  we  saw  you  last." 

"  I  did  so,"  answered  Clarence.  "  I  trust  that  he  will 
not  now  disdain  a  stranger's  offering,  —  may  it  be  as 
ominous  of  good-luck  to  him  as  my  night  in  your  caravan 
has  proved  to  me." 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  prospered," 
said  Cole,  —  "  now,  let  us  fall  to." 

1  To  the  play  of  "  All  Fools,"  by  Chapman. 

VOL.  11.  —  11 


162  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LXV. 

Out  of  these  convertites 
There  is  much  matter  to  be  heard  and  learned. 

Shakespeare. 

"If  you  are  bent  upon  leaving  us  so  soon,"  said  the 
honest  Cole,  as  Clarence,  refusing  all  further  solicita- 
tion to  stay,  seized  the  opportunity  which  the  cessation. 
of  the  rain  afforded  him,  and  rose  to  depart,  —  "  if  you 
are  bent  upon  leaving  us  so  soon,  I  will  accompany  you 
back  again  into  the  main  road,  as  in  duty  bound." 

"What!  immediately  on  your  return?"  said  Clar- 
ence: "no,  no, — not  a  step.  What  would  my  fair 
hostess  say  to  me  if  I  suffered  it  ?  " 

"  Rather  what  would  she  say  to  me  if  I  neglected  such 
a  courtesy?  Why,  sir,  when  I  meet  one  who  knows 
Shakespeare's  sonnets,  to  say  nothing  of  the  lights  of  the 
lesser  stars,  as  well  as  you,  only  once  in  eight  years,  do 
you  not  think  I  would  make  the  most  of  him?  Be- 
sides, it  is  but  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  road,  and  I 
love  walking  after  a  shower." 

"I  am  afraid,  Mrs.  Cole,"  said  Clarence,  "that  I 
must  be  selfish  enough  to  accept  the  offer."  And  Mrs. 
Cole,  blushing  and  smiling  her  assent  and  adieu,  Clar- 
ence shook  hands  with  tlie  whole  party,  grandfather  and 
child  included,  and  took  his  departure. 

As  Cole  was  now  a  pedestrian,  Linden  threw  the  rein 
over  his  arm,  and  walked  on  foot  by  his  host's  side. 

"  So,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  I  must  not  inquire  into  the 
reasons  of  your  retirement?" 


THE   DISOWNED.  163 

"  On  the  contrary,"  replied  Cole,  "  I  have  walked  with 
you  the  more  gladly  from  my  desire  of  telling  them  to 
you;  for  we  all  love  to  seem  consistent  even  in  our 
chimeras.  About  six  years  ago,  I  confess  that  I  began 
to  wax  a  little  weary  of  my  wandering  life;  my  child, 
in  growing  up,  required  playmates :  shall  I  own  that  I 
did  not  like  him  to  find  them  among  the  children  of  my 
own  comrades?  The  old  scamps  were  good  enough  for 
me,  but  the  young  ones  were  a  little  too  bad  for  my  son. 
Between  you  and  me  only  be  it  said,  my  juvenile  hope 
was  already  a  little  corrupted.  The  dog  Mim  —  you 
remember  Mim,  sir  —  secretly  taught  him  to  filch  as 
well  as  if  he  had  been  a  bantling  of  his  own;  and, 
faith,  our  smaller  goods  and  chattels,  especially  of  an 
edible  nature,  began  to  disappear  with  a  rapidity  and 
secrecy  that  our  itinerant  palace  could  very  ill  sustain. 
Among  us  (that  is,  gypsies)  there  is  a  law  by  which  no 
member  of  the  gang  may  steal  from  another;  but  my 
little  heavsn-instructed  youth  would  by  no  means  abide 
by  that  distinction;  and  so  boldly  designed  and  well 
executed  were  his  rogueries,  that  my  paternal  anxiety 
saw  nothing  before  him  but  Botany  Bay  on  the  one 
hand,  and  Newgate  Courtyard  on  the  other." 

"  A  sad  prospect  for  the  heir-apparent !  "  quoth  Clarence. 

"It  was  so!  "  answered  Cole,  "  and  it  made  me  de- 
liberate. Then,  as  one  gets  older,  one's  romance  oozes 
out  a  little  in  rheums  and  catarrhs.  I  began  to  perceive 
that,  though  I  had  been  bred,  I  had  not  been  educated 
as  a  gypsy ;  and  what  was  worse,  Lucy,  though  she 
never  complained,  felt  that  the  walls  of  our  palace 
were  not  exempt  from  the  damps  of  winter,  nor  our 
royal  state  from  the  Caliban  curses  of 

'  Cramps  and 
Side-stitcbes  that  do  pen  our  breath  up.' 


1G4  Tiir:  disowned. 

She  fell  ill;  and  during  her  illness  I  had  sundry  l^right 
visions  of  warm  rooms  and  coal  fires,  a  friend,  with 
whom  I  could  converse  upon  Chaucer,  and  a  tutor  for 
my  son  who  Avould  teach  him  other  arts  than  those  of 
picking  pockets  and  pilfering  larders.  Nevertheless,  I 
was  a  little  asliamed  of  my  own  thoughts ;  and  I  do  not 
know  whether  they  would  have  been  yet  put  into  ])rac- 
tice,  but  for  a  trilling  circumstance  which  converted 
doubt  and  longing  into  certainty. 

"  Our  crank  cufiins  had  for  some  time  looked  upon 
me  with  suspicion  and  coldness:  my  superior  privileges 
and  comforts  they  had  at  first  forgiven,  on  account  of 
my  birth  and  my  generosity  to  them;  but  by  degrees 
they  lost  respect  for  the  one  and  gratitude  for  the  other; 
and  as  I  had  in  a  great  measure  ceased  from  participating 
in  their  adventures,  or,  during  Lucy's  illness,  which 
lasted  several  mouths,  joining  in  their  festivities,  they 
at  length  considered  me  as  a  drone  in  a  hive,  by  no 
means  compensating  by  my  services  as  an  ally  for  my 
admittance  into  their  horde  as  a  stranger.  You  will 
easily  conceive,  when  this  once  became  the  state  of  tlieir 
feelings  towards  me,  with  how  ill  a  temper  they  brooked 
the  lordship  of  my  stately  caravan,  and  mj^  assumption 
of  superior  command.  Above  all,  the  Avomen,  who  were 
very  much  incensed  at  Lucy's  constant  seclusion  from 
their  orgies,  fanned  tlic  increasing  discontent;  and  at 
last  I  verily  believe  that  no  eyesore  could  have  been 
more  grievous  to  the  Eg3'})tians  than  my  wooden  habi- 
tation and  the  smoke  of  its  single  chimney. 

"From  ill-will  the  rascals  proceeded  to  ill  acts :  and 
one  dark  night,  wlien  we  Avere  encamped  on  the  very 
same  ground  as  that  which  we  occupied  when  we  re- 
ceived you,  three  of  tliem,  Mim  at  their  head,  attacked 
me  in  mine  own  haltitatioii.      I  verily  bcdieve,  if  tliey 


THE   DISOWNED.  165 

had  mastered  ine ,  they  woukl  have  robbed  and  murdered 
us  all,  —  except  perhaps  my  son,  whom  they  thought  I 
ill-used  by  depriving  him  of  Mini's  instructive  society. 
Howbeit,  I  was  still  stirring  when  tliey  invaded  me, 
and  by  the  help  of  the  poker  and  a  tolerably  strong  arm, 
I  repelled  the  assailants;  but  that  very  night  I  passed 
from  the  land  of  Egypt,  and  made  with  all  possible 
expedition  to  the  nearest  town,  which  was,  as  you  may 
remember,  W . 

"  Here,  the  very  next  day,  I  learned  that  the  house  I 
now  inhabit  was  to  be  sold.  It  had  (as  I  before  said) 
belonged  to  my  mother's  family,  and  my  father  had  sold 
it  a  little  before  his  death.  It  was  the  home  from  which 
I  had  been  stolen,  and  to  which  I  had  been  returned: 
often  in  my  starlit  wanderings  had  I  flown  to  it  in 
thought;  and  now  it  seemed  as  if  Providence  itself,  in 
olfering  to  my  age  the  asylum  I  had  above  all  others 
coveted  for  it,  was  interested  in  my  retirement  from  the 
empire  of  an  ungrateful  people,  and  my  atonement,  in 
rest  for  my  past  sins  in  migration. 

"  Well,  sir,  in  short,  I  became  the  purchaser  of  tlie 
place  you  have  just  seen,  and  I  now  think  that,  after 
all,  there  is  more  happiness  in  reality  than  romance: 
like  the  laverock,  here  will  I  build  my  nest,  — 

'  Here  give  my  weary  spirit  rest, 
And  raise  ray  low-pitched  thoughts  above 
Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love.'  " 

"  And  your  son,"  said  Clarence,  —  "  has  he  reformed  ?  " 
"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  Cole.  "  For  my  part,  I  believe 
the  mind  is  less  evil  than  people  say  it  is;  its  great 
characteristic  is  imitation,  and  it  will  imitate  the  good 
as  well  as  the  bad,  if  we  will  set  the  example.  I  thank 
Heaven,  sir,  that  my  boy  now  might  go  from  Dan  to 
Beersheba,  and  not  filch  a  groat  by  the  way." 


166  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  What  do  you  intend  him  for  ?  "  said  Clarence. 

"  Why,  he  loves  adventure,  and,  faith,  I  can't  break 
him  of  that,  for  I  love  it  too;  so  I  think  I  shall  got 
him  a  commission  in  the  army,  in  order  to  give  him  a 
fitting  and  legitimate  sphere  wherein  to  indulge  his 
propensities." 

"  You  could  not  do  better,"  said  Clarence.  "  But 
your  fine  sister,  what  says  she  to  your  amendment  ■?  " 

"  Oh!  she  wrote  me  a  long  letter  of  congratulation 
upon  it;  and  every  other  summer  she  is  graciously 
pleased  to  pay  me  a  visit  of  three  months  long;  at 
which  time  I  observe  that  poor  Lucy  is  unusually 
smart  and  uncomfortable.  We  sit  in  the  best  room, 
and  turn  out  the  dogs;  my  father-in-law  smokes  his 
pipe  in  the  arbor  instead  of  the  drawing-room;  and  I 
receive  sundry  hints,  all  in  vain,  on  the  propriety  of 
dressing  for  dinner.  In  return  for  these  attentions  on 
our  part,  my  sister  invariably  brings  my  boy  a  present 
of  a  pair  of  wliite  gloves,  and  my  wife  a  French  ribbon 
of  the  newest  pattern;  in  the  evening,  instead  of  my 
reading  Shakespeare,  she  tells  us  anecdotes  of  high  life; 
and  wlien  she  goes  away ,  she  gives  us,  in  return  for  our 
hospitality,  a  very  general  and  very  gingerly  invitation  to 
her  house.  Lucy  sometimes  talks  to  me  about  accepting 
it;  but  I  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  all  such  overtures,  and  so  we 
continue  much  better  friends  than  we  should  be  if  we 
saw  more  of  each  other." 

"  And  how  long  has  your  father-in-law  been  with 
you?" 

"  Ever  since  we  have  been  here.  He  gave  up  his 
farm,  and  cultivates  mine  for  me;  for  I  know  nothing 
of  those  agricultural  matters.  I  made  his  coming  a 
little  surprise,  in  order  to  please  Lucy:  you  should 
have  witnessed  their  meeting." 


THE   DISOWNED.  167 

"  I  think  I  have  now  learned  all  particulars,"  said 
Clarence ;  "  it  only  remains  for  me  to  congratulate  you ; 
but  are  you,  in  truth,  never  tired  of  the  monotony  and 
sameness  of  domestic  life  1  " 

"  Yes !  —  and  then  I  do,  as  I  have  just  done,  —  saddle 
Little  John,  and  go  on  an  excursion  of  three  or  four 
days,  or  even  weeks,  just  as  the  whim  seizes  me;  for  I 
never  return  till  I  am  driven  back  by  the  yearning  for 
home,  and  the  feeling  that,  after  all  one's  wanderings, 
there  is  no  place  like  it.  Whether  in  private  life  or 
public,  sir,  in  parting  with  a  little  of  one's  liberty  one 
gets  a  great  deal  of  comfort  in  exchange. " 

"I  thank  you  truly  for  your  frankness,"  said  Clar- 
ence ;  "  it  has  solved  many  doubts  with  respect  to  you 
that  have  often  occurred  to  me.  And  now  we  are  in 
the  main  road,  and  I  must  bid  you  farewell;  we  part, 
but  our  paths  lead  to  the  same  object,  —  you  return  to 
happiness,  and  I  seek  it." 

"  May  you  find  it,  and  /  not  lose  it,  sir,"  said  the 
wanderer  reclaimed;  and  shaking  hands,  the  pair 
parted. 


1C8  THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LXVI. 

Quicquid  agit  Riifus,  nihil  est,  nisi  Ncevia  Rufo, 
Si  gaudet,  si  flet,  si  tacet,  lianc  loijuitur ; 
Coenat,  propinat,  poscit,  negat,  anniiit,  una  est 
Naevia;  si  non  sit  Ntcvia,  mntus  erit. 
Scriberet  hesterna  patri  ciun  luce  salutem 
Nsevia  iux,  iuquit,  NiEvia  uunieu,  ave.^ 

Mart, 

"The  last  time,"  said  Clarence  to  himself,  "that  I 
travelled  this  road,  on  exactly  the  same  errand  that  I 
travel  now,  I  do  remember  that  I  -was  honored  by  the 
company  of  one  in  all  respects  the  opposite  to  mine 
honest  host;  for,  whereas  in  the  latter  there  is  a  luxu- 
riant and  wild  eccentricity,  an  open  and  blunt  sim- 
plicity, and  a  shrewd  sense,  which  looks  not  after  pence, 
but  peace;  so,  in  the  mind  of  the  friend  of  the  late  Lady 
Waddilove,  there  was  a  flat  and  hedged-in  primness  and 
narrowness  of  thought,  —  an  enclosure  of  bargains  and 
profits  of  all  species:  mustard-pots,  rings,  monkeys, 
chains,  jars,  and  plum-colored  velvet  inexpressibles,  his 
ideas,  with  the  true  alchemy  of  trade,  turned  them  all 
into  gold;  yet  was  he  also  as  shrewd  and  acute  as  he 
with  whose  character  he  contrasts,  —  equally  with  him 

'  "  Whatever  Rufus  does  is  nothing,  except  Njtvia  be  at  his 
elbow.  Be  he  joyful  or  sorrowfnl,  be  he  even  silent,  he  is  still 
harping  upon  her.  He  eats,  he  drinks,  he  asks,  he  denies,  he  as- 
sents. Naevia  is  his  sole  theme  :  no  Nicvia,  and  he  's  dumb.  Yes- 
terday at  daybreak  he  would  fain  write  a  letter  of  salutation  to  his 
father :  '  Hail  Naevia,  light  of  my  eyes/  quoth  he ;  '  hail  Najvia,  my 
divine  one.'  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  169 

seeking  comfort  and  gladness ,  and  an  asylum  for  his  old 
age.  Strange  that  all  tempers  should  have  a  common 
object,  and  never  a  common  road  to  it.  But,  since  I 
have  begun  the  contrast,  let  me  hope  that  it  may  be 
extended  in  its  omen  unto  me;  let  me  hope  that,  as  my 
encountering  witli  the  mercantile  Brown  brought  me  ill- 
luck  in  my  enterprise,  thereby  signifying  the  crosses 
and  vexations  of  those  who  labor  in  the  cheateries  and 
overreachings  which  constitute  the  vocation  of  the  world, 
so  my  meeting  with  the  philosophical  Cole,  who  has, 
both  in  vagrancy  and  rest,  found  cause  to  boast  of  hap- 
piness, authorities  from  his  studies  to  favor  his  inclina- 
tion to  each,  and  reason  to  despise  what  he,  with  Sir 
Kenelm  Digby,  would  wisely  call 

'  The  fading  blossoms  of  the  earth,'  — 

so  my  meeting  with  him  may  prove  a  token  of  good 
speed  to  mine  errand,  and  thereby  denote  prosperity  to 
one  who  seeks  not  riches,  nor  honor,  nor  the  conquest 
of  knaves,  nor  the  good  word  of  fools,  but  happy  love, 
and  the  bourn  of  its  quiet  home." 

Thus,  half  meditating,  half  moralizing,  and  drawing, 
like  a  true  lover,  an  omen  of  fear  or  hope  from  occur- 
rences in  which  plain  reason  could  have  perceived 
neither  type  nor  token,  Clarence  continued,  and  con- 
cluded, his  day's  journey.  He  put  up  at  the  same 
little  inn  he  had  visited  three  years  ago,  and  watched 
his  opportunity  of  seeing  Lady  Flora  alone.  More  for- 
tunate in  that  respect  than  he  had  been  before,  such 
opportunity  the  very  next  day  presented  to  him. 


170  THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LXVIL 

Duhe.  —  Sir  Valentine  ! 

Thur.  —  Yonder  is  Silvia,  and  Silvia's  mine. 

Val.  —  Thurio,  give  back. 

Tlie  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

**  I  THINK,  mamma,"  said  Lady  Flora  to  her  mother, 
"  that,  as  the  morning  is  so  beautiful,  I  will  go  into  the 
pavilion  to  finish  my  drawing." 

"  But  Lord  Ulswater  will  be  here  in  an  hour,  or  per- 
haps less,  —  may  I  tell  him  where  you  are,  and  suffer 
him  to  join  you?  " 

"If  you  will  accompany  him,"  answered  Lady  Flora, 
coldly,  as  she  took  up  her  porU'feuille,  and  withdrew. 

Now  the  pavilion  was  a  small  summer-house  of  stone, 
situated  in  the  most  retired  part  of  the  grounds  belong- 
ing to  Westborough  Park.  It  was  a  favorite  retreat 
with  Lady  Flora,  even  in  the  winter  mouths,  for  warm 
carpeting,  a  sheltered  site,  and  a  fireplace,  constructed 
more  for  comfort  than  economy,  made  it  scarcely  less 
adapted  to  that  season  than  to  the  more  genial  suns  of 
summer. 

The  morning  was  so  bright  and  mild  that  Lady  Flora 
left  open  the  door  as  she  entered;  she  seated  herself 
at  the  table,  and  unmindful  of  her  pretended  employ- 
ment, suffered  the  i^ortefeu'ille  to  remain  unopened. 
Leaning  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  she  gazed  vacantly  on 
the  ground,  and  scarcely  felt  the  tears  which  gathered 
slowly  to  her  eyes,  but,  falling  not,  remained  within 
the  fair  lids,  chill   and   motionless,  as  if   the   thought 


THE   DISOWNED.  171 

which  drew  them  there  was  born  of  a  sorrow  less  agitated 
than  fixed  and  silent. 

The  shadow  of  a  man  darkened  the  threshold,  and 
there  paused. 

Slowly  did  Flora  raise  her  eyes,  and  the  next  moment 
Clarence  Linden  was  by  her  side,  and  at  her  feet. 

"  Flora,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  trembling  with  its  own 
emotions,  —  "  Flora,  have  years  indeed  separated  us 
forever,  —  or  dare  I  hope  that  we  have  misconstrued  each 
other's  hearts,  and  that  at  this  moment  they  yearn  to  be 
united  with  more  than  the  fondness  and  fidelity  of  old? 
Speak  to  me,  Flora,  one  word." 

But  she  had  sunk  on  the  chair  overpoAvered,  surprised, 
and  almost  insensible ;  and  it  was  not  for  some  moments 
that  she  could  utter  words  rather  wrung  from,  than  dic- 
tated by,  her  thoughts. 

"  Cruel  and  insulting,  —  for  what  have  you  come  ?  — 
is  it  at  such  a  time  that  you  taunt  me  with  the  remem- 
brance of  my  past  folly,  or  your  —  your —  "  She  paused 
for  a  moment,  confused  and  hesitating,  but  presently  re- 
covering herself,  rose,  and  added,  in  a  calmer  tone, 
"  Surely  you  have  no  excuse  for  this  intrusion,  —  you  will 
suffer  me  to  leave  you. " 

"No!"  exclaimed  Clarence,  violently  agitated, — 
"  no !  Have  you  not  wronged  me ,  stung  me,  wounded  me 
to  the  core  by  your  injustice !  —  and  will  you  not  hear 
now  how  differently  I  have  deserved  from  you!  On  a 
bed  of  fever  and  pain  I  thought  only  of  you;  I  rose 
from  it  animated  by  the  hope  of  winning  you!  Though, 
during  the  danger  of  my  wound,  and  my  consequent 
illness,  your  parents  alone,  of  all  my  intimate  acquaint- 
ances, neglected  to  honor  with  an  inquiry  the  man  whom 
you  professed  to  consecrate  with  your  regard,  yet  scarcely 
could  my  hand  trace  a  single  sentence  before  I  wrote  to 


172  THE   DISOWNED. 

you  requesting  an  interview,  in  order  to  disclose  my 
birth,  and  claim  your  pliglited  faith  I  Hiat  h^ter  was 
returned  to  me  unanswered,  unopened.  i\ly  friend  and 
benefactor,  whose  fortune  I  now  inherit,  promised  to 
call  upon  your  father,  and  advocate  my  cause.  Death 
anticipated  his  kindness.  As  soon  as  my  sorrow  for  his 
loss  permitted  me,  I  came  to  this  very  spot.  For  three 
days  I  hovered  about  your  house,  seeking  the  meeting 
that  you  would  fain  deny  me  now.  I  could  not  any 
longer  bear  the  torturing  suspense  I  endured.  I  wrote 
to  you ,  —  your  father  answered  the  letter.  Here  —  here, 
I  have  it  still:  read! — note  well  the  cool,  the  damning 
insult  of  each  line!  I  see  that  you  knew  not  of  this: 
I  rejoice  at  it!  Can  you  wonder  that,  on  receiving  it,  I 
subjected  myself  no  more  to  such  affronts  1  I  hastened 
abroad.  On  my  return  I  met  j'ou.  Where  1  In 
crowds;  in  the  glitter  of  midnight  assemblies;  in  the 
whirl  of  what  the  vain  call  pleasure !  I  observed  your 
countenance,  your  manner;  was  there  in  either  a  single 
token  of  endearing  or  regretful  remembrance  1  None ! 
I  strove  to  harden  my  heart;  I  entered  into  politics, 
business,  intrigue,  —  I  hoped,  I  longed,  I  burned  to 
forget  you,  but  in  vain! 

"  At  last  I  heard  that  rumor,  though  it  had  long  pre- 
ceded, had  not  belied  the  truth,  and  that  you  were  to  bo 
married,  —  married  to  Lord  ULswater!  I  will  not  say 
what  I  suffered,  or  how  idly  I  summoned  pride  to  resist 
affection!  But  I  would  not  have  come  now  to  molest 
you.  Flora, —  to  trouble  your  nuptial  rejoicings  with  one 
thought  of  me,  if,  forgive  me,  I  had  not  sudilenly 
dreamed  that  I  had  cause  to  hope  you  had  mistaken, 
not  rejected,  my  heart;  that  —  you  turn  away,  Flora! 
—  you  blush!  — you  weep!  Oh,  tell  me,  by  one  word, 
one  look,  that  1  was  not  deceived!" 


THE   DISOWNED.  173 

"  No,  no,  Clarence,"  said  Flora,  struggling  with  her 
tears;  "  it  is  too  late,  too  late,  now!  'Why,  why  did  I 
not  know  this  before?     I  have  promised,  I  am  pledged! 

—  in  less  than  two  months  I  shall  be  the  wife  of 
another!  " 

"Xever,"  cried  Clarence,  —  "never!  You  promised 
on  a  false  belief;  they  will  not  bind  you  to  such  a 
promise.  Who  is  he  that  claims  you  ?  I  am  his  equal 
in  birth,  in  tlie  world's  name,  —  and  oh,  by  what  worlds 
his  superior  in  love!  I  will  advance  my  claim  to  you 
in  his  very  teeth,  —  nay,  I  will  not  stir  from  these  do- 
mains till  you,  your  father,  and  my  rival  have  repaired 
my  wrongs." 

"  Be  it  so,  sir!  "  cried  a  voice  behind,  and  Clarence 
turned  and  beheld  Lord  Ulswater.  His  dark  counte- 
nance was  flushed  with  rage  which  he  in  vain  endeavored 
to  conceal ;  and  the  smile  of  scorn  that  he  strove  to 
summon  to  his  lip  made  a  ghastly  and  unnatural  contrast 
with  the  lowering  of  his  brow  and  the  fire  of  his  eyes, 

—  "be  it  so,  sir,"  he  said,  slowly  advancing,  and  con- 
fronting Clarence.  "  You  will  dispute  my  claims  to  the 
hand  Lady  Flora  Ardenne  has  long  promised  to  one 
who,  however  unworthy  of  the  gift,  knows  at  least 
how  to  defend  it.  It  is  well ;  let  us  finish  the  dispute 
elsewhere.  It  is  not  the  first  time  we  shall  have  met, 
if  not  as  rivals,  as  foes." 

Clarence  turned  from  him  without  reply ;  for  he  saw 
Lady  Westborough  had  just  entered  the  pavilion,  and 
stood  mute  and  transfixed  at  the  door  with  surprise, 
fear,  and  anger  depicted  upon  her  regal  and  beautiful 
countenance. 

"  It  is  to  you,  madam,"  said  Clarence,  approaching 
towards  her,  "  that  I  venture  to  appeal.  Your  daughter 
and  I,  four  long   years   ago,   exchanged   our   vows;  you 


174  THf:    DISOWNED. 

flattered  me  with  the  hope  that  those  vows  were  not  dis- 
pleasing to  you;  since  then,  a  misunderstuudiiig,  (hiuUy 
to  my  happiness  and  to  hers,  divided  us.  1  come  now 
to  expLain  it.  My  birth  may  have  seemed  obscure ;  I 
come  to  clear  it :  my  conduct  doubtful ;  1  come  to  vindi- 
cate it.  I  tind  Lord  Ulswater  my  rival.  1  am  willing 
to  compare  my  pretensions  to  his.  I  acknowledge  that 
he  has  titles  which  T  have  not,  that  he  has  wealth,  to 
which  mine  is  but  competence,  —  but  titles  and  wealth, 
as  the  means  of  happiness,  are  to  be  refei'red  to  your 
daughter,  to  none  else.  You  have  only,  in  an  alliance 
with  me,  to  consider  my  character  and  my  lineage:  the 
latter  flows  from  blood  as  pure  as  that  which  warms 
the  veins  of  my  rival;  tlie  former  stands  already  u])on 
an  eminence  to  which  Lord  Ulswater,  in  his  loftiest 
visions,  could  never  aspire.  For  the  rest,  madam,  1  ad- 
jure you  solemnly,  as  you  value  your  peace  of  mind, 
your  daughter's  happiness,  your  freedom  from  the  agonies 
of  future  remorse  and  unavailing  regret,  — I  adjure  you 
not  to  divorce  those  whom  God,  who  speaks  in  the  deep 
heart  and  the  plighted  vow,  has  already  joined.  This 
is  a  question  in  wliich  your  daughter's  permanent  woe  or 
lasting  happiness,  from  this  present  hour  to  the  last 
sand  of  life,  is  concerned.  It  is  to  her  that  I  refer  it, 
—  let  her  be  the  judge." 

And  Clarence  moved  from  Lady  Westborough,  who, 
agitated,  confused,  awed  by  the  spell  of  a  power  and 
a  nature  of  which  she  had  not  dreamed,  stood  pale  and 
speechless,  vainly  endeavoring  to  reply:  he  moved  from 
her  towards  Lady  Flora,  who  leaned,  sobbing  and  con- 
vulsed with  contending  emotions,  against  the  wall;  but 
Lord  Ulswater,  whose  fiery  blood  was  boiling  with 
passion,  placed  himself  between  Clarence  and  the  v.a- 
fortuuate  ol)jcct  of  the  contention. 


THE   DISOWNED.  175 

"Touch  her  not,  approach  her  not!"  he  said,  with 
a  fierce  and  menacing  tone,  "  Till  you  have  proved 
your  pretensions  superior  to  mine,  unknown,  presuming, 
and  probably  base-born,  as  you  are,  you  will  only 
pass  over  my  body  to  your  claims, " 

Clarence  stood  still  for  one  moment,  evidently  striv- 
ing to  master  the  wrath  which  literally  swelled  his  form 
beyond  its  ordinary  proportions ;  and  Lady  Westborough, 
recovering  herself  in  the  brief  pause,  passed  between  the 
two,  and,  taking  her  daughter's  arm,  led  her  from  the 
pavilion, 

"  Stay,  madam,  for  one  instant!  "  cried  Clarence;  and 
he  caught  hold  of  her  robe. 

Lady  Westborough  stood  quite  erect  and  still,  and, 
drawing  her  stately  figure  to  its  full  height,  said  with 
that  quiet  dignity  by  which  a  woman  so  often  stills  the 
angrier  passions  of  men,  "  I  lay  the  prayer  and  command 
of  a  mother  upon  you.  Lord  Ulswater,  and  on  you,  sir, 
whatever  be  your  real  rank  and  name,  not  to  make  mine 
and  my  daughter's  presence  the  scene  of  a  contest  which 
dishonors  both.  Still  further,  if  Lady  Flora's  hand  and 
my  approval  be  an  object  of  desire  to  either,  I  make 
it  a  peremptory  condition,  with  both  of  you,  that  a 
dispute  already  degrading  to  her  name  pass  not  from 
word  to  act.  For  you,  Mr.  Linden,  if  so  I  may  call 
you,  I  promise  that  my  daughter  shall  be  left  free  and 
unbiassed  to  give  that  reply  to  your  singular  conduct 
which  I  doubt  not  her  own  dignity  and  sense  will 
suggest!  " 

"By  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Lord  Ulswater,  utterly 
beside  himself  with  rage,  which,  suppressed  at  the  begin- 
ning of  Lady  Westborough 's  speech,  had  been  kindled 
into  double  fury  by  its  conclusion,  "  you  will  not  suifer 
Lady  Flora,  no,  nor  any  one  but  her  affianced  bride- 


176  THE   DISOWNED. 

groom,  her  only  legitimate  defender,  to  answer  this  arro- 
gant intruder!  You  cannot  think  that  her  hand,  the 
hand  of  my  future  wife,  shall  trace  line  or  word  to  one 
who  has  so  insulted  her  Avith  his  addresses,  and  me 
with  his  rivalry." 

"Man!"  cried  Clarence,  ahruptly,  and  seizing  Lord 
Ulswater  fiercely  by  the  arm,  "there  are  some  causes 
which  Avill  draw  fire  from  ice ;  beware  —  beware  how  you 
incense  me  to  pollute  my  soul  with  the  blood  of  a  — " 

"  What!  "  exclaimed  Lord  Ulswater. 

Clarence  bent  down  and  whispered  one  word  in  his 
ear. 

Had  that  word  been  the  spell  with  which  the  sorcerers 
of  old  disarmed  the  fiend,  it  could  not  have  wrought  a 
greater  change  upon  Lord  Ulswater's  mien  and  face. 
He  staggered  back  several  paces;  tlie  glow  of  his  swarthy 
cheek  faded  into  a  death-like  paleness;  the  word  which 
passion  had  conjured  to  his  tongue  died  there  in  silence; 
and  he  stood  with  eyes  dilated  and  fixed  on  Clarence's 
face,  on  which  their  gaze  seemed  to  force  some  unwill- 
ing certainty. 

But  Linden  did  not  wait  for  him  to  recover  his  self- 
possession;  he  hurried  after  Lady  Westborougli,  who, 
with  her  daughter,  was  hastening  home. 

"  Pardon  me.  Lady  Westborough,"  he  said  (as  he  ap- 
proached) ,  with  a  tone  and  air  of  deep  respect,  "  pardon 
nie,  —  but  will  you  suffer  me  to  hope  that  Lady  Flora 
and  yourself  will,  in  a  moment  of  greater  calmness,  con- 
sider over  all  I  have  said  1  —  and  —  that  she  —  that  you, 
Lady  "Flora,"  added  he,  changing  the  object  of  his 
address,  "will  vouchsafe  one  line  of  unprejudiced,  un- 
biassed reply,  to  a  love  which,  however  misrepresented 
and  calumniated,  has  in  it,  I  dare  say,  nothing  that  can 
disgrace  her  to  whom,  with  an  enduring  constancy,  and 


THE    DISOWNED,  177 

undimmed  though  unhoping  ardor,  it  has  heen  invio- 
lably dedicated  1  " 

Lady  Flora,  though  she  spoke  not,  lifted  her  eyes  to 
his,  and  in  that  glance  was  a  magic  which  made  his 
heart  burn  with  a  sudden  and  flashing  joy  that  atoned 
for  the  darkness  of  years. 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  Lady  Westborough,  touched, 
in  spite  of  heiself,  with  the  sincerity  and  respect  of 
Clarence's  bearing, —"  that  Lady  Flora  will  reply  to 
any  letter  of  explanation  or  proposal :  for  myself,  I  will 
not  even  see  her  answer.  Where  shall  it  be  sent  to 
you  ?  " 

"  I  have  taken  my  lodgings  at  the  inn  by  your  park 
gates.     I  shall  remain  there  till  —  till  —  " 

Clarence  paused,  for  his  heart  was  full ;  and  leaving 
the  sentence  to  be  concluded  as  his  listeners  pleased,  he 
drew  himself  aside  from  their  path,  and  suffered  them 
to  proceed. 

As  he  was  feeding  his  eyes  with  the  last  glimpse  of 
their  forms,  ere  a  turn  in  the  ground  snatclied  them 
from  his  view,  he  heard  a  rapid  step  behind,  and  Lord 
Ulswater,  approaching,  laid  his  hand  upon  Linden's 
shoulder,  and  said  calmly,  — 

"  Are  you  furnished  with  proof  to  support  the  word 
you  uttered  1  " 

"  I  am!  "  replied  Clarence,  haughtily. 

"  And  will  you  favor  me  with  it  1  " 

"  At  your  leisure,  my  lord,"  rejoined  Clarence. 

"  Enough!  Name  your  time,  and  I  will  attend  you." 

"  On  Tuesday :  I  require  till  then  to  produce  my 
witnesses. " 

"  So  be  it,  —  yet  stay;  on  Tuesday  I  have  military 

business  at  W ,   some  miles  hence:  the   next  day 

let  it  be,  —  the  place  of  meeting  where  you  please." 

VOL.  II.  —  12 


178  THE   DISOWNED. 

"Here,  tlien,  my  lord,"  answered  Clarence;  "you 
have  insulted  me  grossly  before  Lady  Westborough  and 
your  affianced  bride,  and  before  them  my  vindication  and 
answer  should  be  given." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Lord  Ulswater:  "be  it  here, 
at  the  hour  of  twelve. "  Clarence  bowed  his  assent,  and 
withdrew. 

Lord  Ulswater  remained  on  the  spot,  with  downcast 
eyes,  and  a  brow  on  which  thought  had  succeeded 
passion. 

"  If  true,"  said  he,  aloud,  though  unconsciously,  — "  if 
this  be  true,  why  then  I  owe  him  reparation,  and  he 
shall  have  it  at  my  hands.  I  owe  it  to  him  on  my  ac- 
count, and  that  of  one  now  no  more.  Till  we  meet,  I 
will  not  again  see  Lady  Flora;  after  that  meeting,  per- 
haps I  may  resign  her  forever. " 

And  with  these  words  the  young  nobleman,  who, 
despite  of  many  evil  and  overbearing  qualities,  had,  as 
we  have  said,  his  redeeming  virtues,  in  which  a  capri- 
cious and  unsteady  generosity  was  one,  walked  slowly  to 
the  house,  wrote  a  brief  note  to  Lady  Westborough,  the 
purport  of  which  the  next  chapter  will  disclose,  and 
then  summoning  his  horse,  flung  himself  on  its  back, 
and  rode  hastily  away. 


THE  DISOWNED.  179 


CHAPTEE  LXVIII. 

We  will  examine  if  those  accidents, 

Which  common  fame  call  injuries,  happen  to  him 

Deservedly  or  no. 

The  New  Inn. 

FROM  LORD  ULSWATER  TO  LADY  WESTBOROUGH. 

Forgive  me,  dearest  Lady  Westborough,  for  my  violence, 
—  you  know  and  will  allow  for  the  infirmities  of  my  temper. 
I  have  to  make  you  and  Lady  Flora  one  request,  which  I  trust 
you  will  not  refuse  me. 

Do  not  see,  or  receive  any  communication  from  Mr.  Linden 
till  Wednesday  ;  and  on  that  day,  at  the  hour  of  twelve,  suf- 
fer me  to  meet  him  at  your  house.  I  Avill  then  either  prove 
him  to  be  the  basest  of  impostors,  or,  if  I  fail  in  this,  and  Lady 
Flora  honors  my  rival  with  one  sentiment  of  preference,  I 
will,  without  a  murmur,  submit  to  her  decree  and  my  rejec- 
tion. Dare  I  trust  that  this  petition  will  be  accorded  to  one 
who  is,  with  great  regard  and  esteem.     Etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

"  This  is  fortunate,*'  said  Lady  Westborough,  gently, 
to  her  daughter,  who,  leaning  her  head  on  her  mother's 
bosom,  suffered  hopes,  the  sweeter  for  their  long  sleep, 
to  divide,  it  not  wholly  to  possess  her  heart.  "  We  shall 
have  now  time  well  and  carefully  to  reflect  over  what 
will  be  best  for  your  future  happiness.  We  owe  this 
delay  to  one  to  whom  you  have  been  affianced.  Let  us, 
therefore,  now  merely  write  to  Mr.  Linden,  to  inform 
him  of  Lord  Ulswater's  request,  and  to  say  that  if  he 
will  meet  his  lordship  at  the  time  appointed,  we,  that 
is,  7,  shall  be  happy  to  see  him." 


180  THE    DISOWN  KD. 

Lady  Flora  sighed,  but  she  saw  tlie  reasonableness  of 
her  mother's  proposal,  and  pressing  Lady  Westborough's 
hand,  miirniured  her  assent. 

"  At  all  events,"  tliought  Lady  Westborough,  as  she 
wrote  to  Clarence,  "the  att'air  can  but  terminate  to  ad- 
vantage. If  Lord  Ulswater  proves  Mr.  Linden's  un- 
worthiness,  the  suit  of  the  latter  is,  of  course,  at  rest 
forever:  if  not,  and  Mr.  Linden  be  indeed  all  that  he 
asserts,  my  daughter's  choice  cannot  be  an  election  of 
reproach ;  Lord  [JlsAvater  promises  peaceably  to  with- 
draw his  pretensions ;  and  though  INIr.  Linden  may  not 
possess  his  rank  or  fortune,  he  is  certainly  one  with 
whom,  if  of  ancient  blood,  any  family  would  be  proud 
of  an  alliance." 

Blending  witli  these  reflections  a  consideral)le  share  of 
curiosity  and  interest  in  a  secret  which  partook  so 
strongly  of  romance.  Lady  Westborough  despatched  lier 
note  to  Clarence.  The  answer  returned  was  brief,  re- 
spectful, and  not  only  acquiescent  in,  but  grateful  for  the 
proposal. 

With  this  arrangement  both  Lady  Westborough  and 
Lady  Flora  were  compelled,  though  with  very  different 
feelings,  to  be  satisfied;  and  an  agreement  was  estab- 
lished between  them  to  the  effect  that,  if  Linden's  name 
passed  unblemished  through  the  appointed  ordeal,  Lady 
Flora  was  to  be  left  to,  and  favored  in  her  OAvn  election  •• 
while,  on  tlie  contrary,  if  Lord  Ulswater  succeeded  in 
the  proof  he  had  spoken  of,  his  former  footing  in  the 
family  was  to  be  fully  re-established,  and  our  unfortu- 
nate adventurer  forever  discarded. 

To  this  Lady  Flora  readily  consented;  for  with  a  san- 
guine and  certain  trust  in  her  lover's  truth  and  honor, 
which  was  tenfold  more  strong  for  her  late  suspicions, 
she  would  not  allow  herself  a  doubt  as  to  the  result;  and 


THE    DISOWNED.  181 

■with  an  impatience,  mingled  with  a  rapturons  exhilara- 
tion of  spirit,  which  brought  back  to  her  the  freshness 
and  radiancy  of  her  youngest  years,  she  counted  the 
hours  and  moments  to  the  destined  day. 

While  such  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  Westborough 
Park.  Clarence  was  again  on  horseback,  and  on  another 
excursion.  By  the  noon  of  the  day  following  tliat  which 
had  seen  his  eventful  meeting  with  Lady  Flora,  he 
found  himself  approaching  the  extreme  boundaries  of  the 
county  in  which  Mordaunt  Court,  and  the  memorable 

town  of  W ,  were  situated.      The  characteristics  of 

the  country  were  now  materially  changed  from  those 
which  gave  to  the  vicinity  of  Algernon's  domains  its 
wild  and  uncultivated  aspect. 

As  Clarence  slowly  descended  a  hill  of  considerable 
steepness  and  length,  a  prospect  of  singular  and  luxu- 
rious beauty  opened  to  his  view.  The  noblest  of  Eng- 
land's rivers  was  seen  through  "  turfs  and  shades  and 
flowers,"  pursuing  "  its  silver-winding  way."  On  the 
opposite  banks  lay,  embosomed  in  the  golden  glades  of 
autumn,  the  busy  and  populous  town  that  from  the 
height  seemed  still  and  lifeless  as  an  enchanted  city, 
over  which  the  mid-day  sun  hung  like  a  guardian  spirit. 
Behind,  in  sweeping  diversity,  stretched  wood  and  dale, 
and  fields  despoiled  of  their  rich  harvest,  yet  still  pre- 
senting a  yellow  surface  to  the  eye,  and  ever  and  anon 
some  bright  patch  of  green,  demanding  the  gaze  as  if  by 
a  lingering  spell  from  the  past  spring;  while,  here  and 
there,  spire  and  hamlet  studded  the  landscape,  or  some 
lowly  cot  lay,  backed  by  the  rising  ground  or  the  silent 
woods,  white  and  solitary,  and  sending  up  its  faint  trib- 
ute of  smoke  in  spires  to  the  altars  of  Heaven.  The 
river  was  more  pregnant  of  life  than  its  banks :  barge 
and  boat  were  gliding  gayly  down  the    wave,  and  the 


182  THE   DISOWNED. 

glad  oar  of  the  frequent  and  slender  vessels  consecrated 
to  pleasure  was  seen  dimpling  the  water,  made  by  dis- 
tance smoother  than  glass. 

On  the  right  side  of  Clarence's  road,  as  he  descended 
the  hill,  lay  wide  plantations  of  fir  and  oak,  divided 
from  the  road  by  a  park  paling,  the  uneven  sides  of 
which  were  covered  with  brown  moss,  and  which,  at  rare 
openings  in  the  young  wood,  gave  glimpses  of  a  park, 
seemingly  extending  over  a  great  space,  the  theatre 
of  many  a  stately  copse  and  oaken  grove  which  might 
have  served  the  Druids  with  fane  and  temple  meet  for 
the  savage  sublimity  of  their  worship. 

Upon  these  unfrequent  views,  Clarence  checked  his 
horse,  and  gazed,  with  emotions  sweet  yet  bitter,  over 
the  pales,  along  the  green  expanse  which  they  contained. 
And  once,  when  through  the  trees  he  caught  a  slight 
glimpse  of  the  Avhite  walls  of  the  mansion  they  adorned, 
all  the  years  of  his  childhood  seemed  to  rise  on  his 
heart,  thrilling  to  its  fartliost  depths  with  a  mighty  and 
sorrowful,  yet  sweet,  melody,  and  — 

"  Singing  of  boyhood  back,  —  the  voices  of  his  home." 

Home!  yes,  amidst  those  groves  had  the  April  of  his 
life  lavished  its  mingled  smiles  and  tears!  There  was 
the  spot  hallowed  by  his  earliest  joys,  and  the  scene 
of  sorrow  still  more  sacred  than  joys!  and  now,  afte  ■ 
many  years,  the  exiled  boy  came  back,  a  prosperous 
and  thoughtful  man,  to  take  but  one  brief  glance  of 
that  home  which  to  him  had  been  less  hospitable  than 
a  stranger's  dwelling,  and  to  find  a  witness,  among 
those  who  remembered  him,  of  his  very  birth  and 
identity ! 

He  wound  the  ascent  at  last,  and  entering  a  small 
town  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  which  was  exactly  facing 


THE   DISOWNED.  183 

the  larger  one  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  river,  put  up 
his  horse  at  one  of  the  inns,  and  then,  with  a  beating 
heart,  remounted  the  hill,  and  entering  the  park  by  one 
of  its  lodges,  found  himself  once  more  in  the  haunts 
of  his  childhood. 


184  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LXIX. 

Oh,  the  steward,  the  steward  —  I  might  have  guessed  as  much. 

2\ilei  of  the  Crusaders. 

The  evening  was  already  beginning  to  close,  and  Clar- 
ence was  yet  wandering  in  the  park,  and  retracing,  with 
his  heart's  eye,  each  knoll  and  tree  and  tuft,  once  so 
familiar  to  his  wanderings. 

At  the  time  we  shall  again  bring  him  personally 
before  the  reader,  he  was  leaning  against  an  iron  fence 
that,  running  along  the  left  wing  of  the  house,  separated 
the  pleasure-grounds  from  the  park,  and  gazing,  with 
folded  arms  and  wistful  eyes,  upon  the  scene  on  which 
the  dusk  of  twilight  Avas  gradually  gathering. 

The  house  was  built  originally  in  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.  ;  it  had  since  received  alteration  and  addi- 
tions, and  now  presented  to  the  eye  a  vast  pile  of 
Grecian,  or  rather  Italian  architecture,  heterogeneously 
blended  with  the  massive  Avindow,  the  stiff  coping,  and 
the  heavy  roof  which  the  age  immediately  following  the 
Revolution  introduced.  The  extent  of  the  building, 
and  the  grandeur  of  the  circling  demesnes,  were  suffi- 
cient to  render  the  mansion  imposing  in  effect;  while, 
perhaps,  the  style  of  the  architecture  was  calculated  to 
conjoin  a  stately  comfort  with  magnificence,  and  to  atone 
in  solidity  for  any  deficiency  in  grace.  At  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  house,  and  placed  on  a  much  more  com- 
manding site,  were  some  ancient  and  ivy -grown  ruins, 
now  scanty  indeed,  and  fast  movildering  into  decay,  but 
sufficient  to  show  the  antiquarian  the  remains  of  what 


THE   DISOWNED.  185 

once  had  been  a  hold  of  no  ordinary  size  and  power. 
These  were  the  wrecks  of  the  old  mansion,  which  was 
recorded  by  tradition  to  have  been  reduced  to  this  state 
by  accidental  fire,  during  the  banishment  of  its  loyal 
owner  in  the  time  of  the  Protectorate.  Upon  his  return 
the   present  house   was  erected. 

As  Clarence  was  thus  stationed,  he  perceived  an 
elderly  man  approach  towards  him.  "  This  is  fortu- 
nate," said  he  to  himself,  —  "  the  very  person  I  have 
been  watching  for.  Well,  years  have  passed  lightly 
over  old  Wardour:  still  the  same  precise  garb,  the 
same  sturdy  and  slow  step,  the  same  upright  form." 

The  person  thus  designated  now  drew  near  enough  for 
parlance;  and,  in  a  tone  a  little  authoritative,  though 
very  respectful,  inquired  if  Clarence  had  any  business 
to  transact  with  him. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Clarence,  slouching  his  hat  over 
his  face,  "  for  lingering  so  near  the  house  at  this  hour: 
but  I  have  seen  it  many  years  ago,  and  indeed  been  a 
guest  within  its  walls ;  and  it  is  rather  my  interest  for 
an  old  friend,  than  my  curiosity  to  examine  a  new  one, 
which  you  are  to  blame  for  my  trespass. " 

"  Oh,  sir,"  answeied  Mr.  Wardour,  a  short  and  rather 
stout  man,  of  about  sixty-four,  attired  in  a  chocolate 
coat,  gray  breeches,  and  silk  stockings  of  the  same  dye, 
which,  by  the  waning  light,  took  a  sombrer  and  sadder 
hue, — "oh,  sir,  pray  make  no  apology.  I  am  only 
sorry  the  hour  is  so  late  that  I  cannot  offer  to  show 
you  the  interior  of  the  house :  perhaps,  if  you  are  stay- 
ing in  the  neighborhood,  you  would  like  to  see  it  to- 
morrow. You  were  here,  I  take  it,  sir,  in  my  old  lord's 
time  1  " 

"I  was!  —  upon  a  visit  to  his  second  son,  —  we  had 
been  boys  together." 


186  THE   DISOWNED. 

"What!  Master  Clinton?"  cried  the  old  man, 
with  extreme  animation;  and  then  suddenly  changing 
his  voice,  added,  in  a  subdued  and  saddened  tone, 
"Ah!  poor  young  gentleman,  I  wonder  where  he  is 
now  1  " 

"  AVhy,  —  is  he  not  in  this  country  1  "  asked  Clarence. 

"  Yes  —  no:  that  is,  I  can't  exactly  say  where  he  is, 
—  I  wish  I  could.  Poor  Master  Clinton,  —  I  loved 
him  as  my  own  son." 

"You  surprise  me,"  said  Clarence.  "Is  there  any- 
thing in  the  fate  of  Clinton  L' Estrange  that  calls  forth 
your  pity !  If  so,  you  would  gratify  a  much  better  feel- 
ing than  curiosity  if  you  would  inform  me  of  it.  The 
fact  is,  that  I  came  here  to  seek  him ;  for  I  have  been 
absent  from  the  country  many  years,  and  on  my  return, 
my  first  inquiry  was  for  my  old  friend  and  schoolfellow. 
None  knew  anything  of  him  in  London,  and  I  imagined, 
therefore ,  that  he  might  have  settled  down  into  a  country 
gentleman.  I  was  fully  prepared  to  find  him  marshall- 
ing the  fox-hounds  or  beating  the  preserves;  and  you 
may  consequently  imagine  my  mortification  on  learning 
at  my  inn  that  he  had  not  been  residing  here  for  many 
years :  further  I  know  not  !  " 

"Ay  —  ay,  sir,"  said  the  old  steward,  who  had  lis- 
tened very  attentively  to  Clarence's  detail,  "had  you 
pressed  one  of  the  village  gossips  a  little  closer,  you 
would  doubtless  have  learned  more !  But  't  is  a  story  I 
don't  much  love  telling,  although  formerly  I  could  have 
talked  of  Master  Clinton  by  the  hour  together,  to  any 
one  who  would  have  had  the  patience  to  listen  to  me." 

"  You  have  really  created  in  me  a  very  painful  desire 
to  learn  more,"  said  Clarence;  "and  if  I  am  not  in- 
truding on  any  family  secrets,  you  would  oblige  me 
greatly  by  whatever  information  you  may  think  proper 


THE   DISOWNED.  187 

to  afford  to  an  early  and  attached  friend  of  the  person 
in  question." 

"  Well,  sir,  well,"  replied  Mr.  Wardour,  who,  with- 
out imputation  on  his  discretion,  loved  talking  as  well 
as  any  other  old  gentleman  of  sixty-four,  "  if  you  will 
condescend  to  step  up  to  my  house,  I  shall  feel  happy 
and  proud  to  converse  with  a  friend  of  my  dear  young 
master's;  and  you  are  heartily  welcome  to  the  informa- 
tion I  can  give  you." 

"I  thank  you  sincerely,"  said  Clarence;  "but  suffer 
me  to  propose,  as  an  amendment  to  your  offer,  that  you 
accompany  me  for  an  hour  or  two  to  my  inn. " 

"Nay,  sir,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  in  a  piqued 
tone,  "  I  trust  you  will  not  disdain  to  honor  me  with 
your  company.  Thank  Heaven,  I  can  afford  to  be 
hospitable  now  and  then." 

Clarence,  who  seemed  to  have  his  own  reasons  for  the 
amendment  he  had  proposed,  still  struggled  against  this 
offer,  but  was  at  last,  from  fear  of  offending  the  honest 
steward,  obliged  to  accede. 

Striking  across  a  path  which  led  through  a  corner  ot 
the  plantation  to  a  space  of  ground  containing  a  small 
garden,  quaintly  trimmed  in  the  Dutch  taste,  and  a 
brick  house  of  moderate  dimensions,  half  overgrown  with 
ivy  and  jasmine,  Clarence  and  his  mvitor  paused  at 
the  door  of  the  said  mansion,  and  the  latter  welcomed 
his  guest  to  his  abode. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Clarence,  as  a  damsel  in  waiting 
opened  the  door,  "  but  a  very  severe  attack  of  rheuma- 
tism obliges  me  to  keep  on  my  hat;  you  will,  I  hope, 
indulge  me  in  my  rudeness." 

"  To  be  sure,  —  to  be  sure,  sir.  I  myself  suffer  terri- 
bly from  rheumatism  in  the  winter:  though  you  look 
young,  sir,  very  young  to  have  an  old  man's  complaint. 


188  THE    DISOWXKD. 

All,  tlie  people  of  my  day  Avore  more  careful  of  tliem- 
selves,  and  that  is  the  reason  we  are  such  stout  fellows 
in  our  age." 

And  the  worthy  steward  looked  complacently  down 
at  legs  which  very  substantially  filled  their  comely 
investments. 

"  True,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  laying  his  hand  upon  that 
of  the  steward,  who  was  just  about  to  open  the  door  of 
an  apartment ;  "  but  suffer  me  at  least  to  request  you  not 
to  introduce  me  to  any  of  the  ladies  of  your  family.  I 
could  not,  were  my  very  life  at  stake,  think  of  afl'ronting 
them  by  not  doffing  my  hat.  I  have  the  keenest  sense 
of  what  is  due  to  the  sex,  and  I  must  seriously  entreat 
you,  for  the  sake  of  my  health  during  the  whole  of  the 
coming  winter,  to  suffer  our  conversation  not  to  take 
place  in  their  presence." 

"  Sir,  —  I  honor  your  politeness,"  said  the  prim  little 
steward:  "I  myself,  like  every  true  Briton,  reverence 
the  ladies;  we  will,  therefore »  retire  to  my  study. 
Mary,  girl,"  turning  to  the  attendant,  "see  that  we 
have  a  nice  chop  for  supper,  in  half  an  hou.'?;  and  tell 
your  mistress  that  I  have  a  gentleman  of  quality  with 
me  upon  particular  biisiness,  and  must  not  be  disturbed." 

With  these  injunctions  the  steward  led  the  way  to 
the  farther  end  of  the  house,  and  having  ushered  his 
guest  into  a  small  parlor,  adorned  with  sundry  law- 
books, a  great  map  of  the  estate,  a  print  of  the  late 
owner  of  it,  a  rusty  gun  slung  over  the  fireplace,  two 
stuffed  pheasants,  and  a  little  mahogany  buffet,  —  hav- 
ing, we  say,  led  Clarence  to  this  sanctuary  of  retiring 
stewardship,  he  placed  a  seat  for  him  and  said,  — 

"  Between  you  and  me,  sir,  be  it  respectfully  said,  I 
am  not  sorry  that  our  little  confabulation  should  pass 
alone.      Ladies  are   very  deliylitful, —  very  delightful, 


THE   DISOWNED.  189 

certainly;  but  they  won't  let  one  tell  a  story  one's  own 
way:  they  are  fidgety,  you  know,  sir,  tidgety,  —  nothing 
more;  'tis  a  trifle,  but  it  is  unpleasant;  besides,  my 
wife  was  Master  Clinton's  foster-mother,  and  she  can't 
hear  a  word  about  him  without  running  on  into  a  long 
rigmarole  of  what  he  did  as  a  baby,  and  so  forth.  I 
like  people  to  be  chatty,  sir,  but  not  garrulous;  I  can't 
bear  garrulity,  — at  least  in  a  female.  But  suppose,  sir, 
we  defer  our  story  till  after  supper  1  A  glass  of  wine  or 
M' arm  punch  makes  talk  glide  more  easily ;  besides,  sir, 
I  want  something  to  comfort  me  when  I  talk  about 
Master  Clinton.  Poor  gentleman,  he  was  so  comely,  so 
handsome !  " 

"  Did  you  think  so?  "  said  Clarence,  turning  towards 
the  fire. 

"Think  so  !  "  ejaculated  the  steward,  almost  angrily; 
and  forthwith  he  launched  out  into  an  encomium  on  the 
perfections,  personal,  moral,  and  mental,  of  Master 
Clinton,  which  lasted  till  the  gentle  Mary  entered  to 
lay  the  cloth.  This  reminded  the  old  steward  of  the 
glass  of  wine  which  was  so  efficacious  in  making  talk 
glide  easily ;  and  going  to  the  buffet  before  mentioned, 
he  drew  forth  two  bottles,  both  of  port.  Having  care- 
fully and  warily  decanted  both,  he  changed  the  subject 
of  his  praise ;  and,  assuring  Clarence  that  the  wine  he 
was  about  to  taste  was  at  least  as  old  as  Master  Clinton, 
having  been  purchased  in  joyous  celebration  of  the  young 
gentleman's  birthday,  he  whiled  away  the  minutes  with 
a  glowing  eulogy  on  its  generous  qualities,  till  Mary 
entered  with  the  supper, 

Clarence,  with  an  appetite  sharpened,  despite  his 
romance,  by  a  long  fast,  did  ample  justice  to  the  fare; 
and  the  old  steward,  warming  into  familiarity  with  the 


190  THE   DISOWNED. 

virtues  of  the  far-famed   port,  chatted  and  huighed  in 
a  strain  lialf  simple  and  half  shrewd. 

The  fire  being  stirred  up  to  a  free  blaze,  the  hcartli 
swept,  and  all  the  tokens  of  supper,  save  and  except  the 
kingly  bottle  and  its  subject  glasses,  being  removed,  the 
steward  and  his  guest  drew  closer  to  each  other,  and 
the  former  began  his  story. 


THE  DISOWNED.  191 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

The  actors  are  at  hand,  and  by  their  show 
You  shall  know  all  that  you  are  like  to  know. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

"  You  know,  probably,  sir,  that  my  late  lord  was  twice 
married:  by  his  first  wife  he  had  three  children,  only 
one  of  whom,  the  youngest,  though  now  the  present  earl, 
survived  the  first  period  of  infancy.  When  Master 
Francis,  as  we  always  called  him,  in  spite  of  his  acces- 
sion to  the  title  of  viscount,  was  about  six  years  old, 
my  lady  died,  and  a  year  afterwards  my  lord  married 
again.  His  second  wife  was  uncommonly  handsome: 
she  was  a  Miss  Talbot  (a  Catholic),  daughter  of  Colonel 
Talbot,  and  niece  to  the  celebrated  beau,  Squire  Talbot 
of  Scarsdale  Park.  Poor  lady !  they  say  that  she  mar- 
ried my  lord  through  a  momentary  pique  against  a  former 
lover.  However  that  may  be,  she  was  a  fine,  high- 
spirited  creature, — very  violent  in  temper,  to  be  sure, 
but  generous  and  kind  wlien  her  passion  was  over:  and 
however  haughty  to  her  equals,  charitable  and  compas- 
sionate to  the  poor. 

"  She  had  but  one  son.  Master  Clinton.  Xever,  sir, 
shall  I  forget  the  rejoicings  that  were  made  at  his  birth ; 
for  my  lord  doted  on  his  second  wife  and  had  disliked 
his  first,  whom  he  had  married  for  her  fortune;  and  it 
was  therefore  natural  that  he  should  prefer  the  child  of 
the  present  wife  to  Master  Francis.  Ah,  it  is  sad  to 
think  how  love  can  change!  Well,  sir,  my  lord  seemed 
literally  to  be  wrapped  up  in  the  infant:  he  nursed  it, 


192  THE    DISOWNKD. 

and  fondled  it,  and  hnng  over  it,  as  if  ]\v  had  Ven  its 
mother  ratlior  tlian  its  father.  My  hidy  desired  tliat  it 
might  he  cliristened  by  one  of  her  family  names,  and  my 
lord  consenting,  it  was  called  Clinton.  (The  wine  is 
with  you,  sir!  Do  observe  that  it  has  not  changed  color 
in  the  least,  notwithstanding  its  age!) 

"  My  lord  was  fond  of  a  quiet,  retired  life  ;  indeed,  he 
was  a  great  scholar,  and  spent  the  chief  part  of  his  time 
among  his  books.  Dr.  Latinas,  the  young  gentleman's 
tutor,  said  his  lordship  made  Greek  verses  better  than 
Dr.  Latinas  could  make  English  ones,  so  you  may  judge 
of  his  learning.  But  my  lady  went  constantly  to  town, 
and  was  among  tlie  gayest  of  the  gay ;  nor  did  she  often 
come  down  here  without  bringing  a  whole  troop  of  guests. 
Lord  help  us,  what  goings-on  there  used  to  be  at  the 
great  house!  —  such  dancing  and  music,  and  dining  and 
supping,  and  shooting-parties,  fishing-parties,  gypsy- 
parties;  you  would  have  thought  all  England  was 
merry-making  there. 

"  But  my  lord,  though  he  indulged  my  lady  in  all  her 
whims  and  extravagance,  seldom  took  much  share  in 
them  himself.  He  was  constantly  occupied  with  his 
library  and  children,  nor  did  he  ever  suffer  either  Mas- 
ter Francis  or  j\Laster  Clinton  to  mix  with  the  guests. 
He  kept  them  very  close  at  their  studies ;  and  when  tlic 
latter  was  six  years  old,  I  do  assure  you,  sir,  he  could 
aay  his  ProjJvia  qucp  maribus  better  than  I  can.  (You 
don't  drink,  sir.)  When  Master  Francis  was  sixteen, 
and  INIaster  Clinton  eight,  the  former  was  sent  abroad 
on  his  travels  with  a  German  tutor,  and  did  not  return 
to  England  for  many  years  afterwards  ;  meanwhile  Master 
Clinton  grew  up  to  the  age  of  fourteen,  increasing  in 
comeliness  and  goodness.  He  was  very  fond  of  his 
studies,  much  more  so  than  Master  Francis  had  been, 


THE   DISOWNED.  193 

and  was  astonishingly  forward  for  his  years.  So  my 
lord  loved  him  better  and  better,  and  would  scarcely 
ever  suffer  him  to  be  out  of  his  sight. 

"  "When  Master  Clinton  was  about  the  age  I  men- 
tioned, —  namely,  fourteen,  —  a  gentleman  of  the  name 
of  Sir  Clinton  Manners  became  a  constant  visitor  at  the 
house.  Keport  said  that  he  was  always  about  my  lady 
in  London,  at  Ranelagh,  and  the  ball-rooms  and  routs, 
and  all  the  fine  places,  —  and  certainly  he  was  scarcely 
ever  from  her  side  in  the  pleasure-parties  at  the  park. 
But  my  lady  said  that  he  was  a  cousin  of  hers,  and  an 
old  playmate  in  childhood,  and  so  he  was,  —  and,  un- 
happily for  her,  something  more  too.  My  lord,  how- 
ever, shut  up  in  his  library,  did  not  pay  any  attention 
to  my  lady's  intimacy  with  Sir  Clinton;  on  the  con- 
trary, as  he  was  a  cousin  and  friend  of  hers,  his  lord- 
ship seemed  always  happy  to  see  him,  and  was  the  only 
person  in  the  neighborhood  who  had  no  suspicion  of 
what  was  going  on. 

"  Oh,  sir,  it  is  a  melancholy  story,  and  I  can  scarcely 
persuade  myself  to  tell  it.  (It  is  really  delicious  wine 
this,  —  six-and-twenty  years  old  last  birthday,  to  say 
nothing  of  its  age  before  I  bought  it, — ah!)  Well, 
sir,  the  blow  came  at  last  like  a  thunder-clap:  my  lady, 
finding  disguise  was  in  vain,  went  off  with  Sir  Clinton. 
Letters  were  discovered  which  showed  that  they  had 
corresponded  for  years,  that  he  was  her  lover  before 
marriage,  that  she,  in  a  momentary  passion  with  him, 
had  accepted  my  lord's  offer,  that  she  had  always  re- 
pented her  precipitation,  and  that  she  had  called  her  son 
after  his  name,  —  all  this  and  much  more,  sir,  did  my 
lord  learn,  as  it  were,  at  a  single  blow. 

"  He  obtained  a  divorce,  and  Sir  Clinton  and  my  lady 
went  abroad.     But  from  that  time  my  lord  was  never 

VOL.  II.  — 13 


194  THE   DISOWNED. 

the  same  man.  Always  proud  and  gloomy,  he  now  be- 
came intolerably  violent  and  morose.  He  shut  himself 
up,  saw  no  company  of  any  description,  rarely  left  the 
house,  and  never  the  park,  —  and  from  being  one  of  the 
gayest  places  in  the  country,  sir,  the  mansion  became 
as  dreary  and  deserted  as  if  it  had  been  haunted.  (It  is 
for  you  to  begin  the  second  bottle,  sir.) 

"  But  the  most  extraordinary  change  in  my  lord  was 
in  his  conduct  to  Master  Clinton:  from  doating  upon 
him,  to  a  degree  that  would  have  spoiled  any  temper  less 
sweet  than  my  poor  young  master's,  he  took  the  most 
violent  aversion  to  him.  From  the  circumstance  of  his 
name,  and  the  long  intimacy  existing  between  my  lady 
and  her  lover,  his  lordship  would  not  believe  that  Mas- 
ter Clinton  was  his  own  child  ;  and  indeed  I  must  confess 
there  seemed  good  ground  for  his  suspicions.  Besides 
this.  Master  Clinton  took  very  much  after  his  mother. 
He  had  her  eyes,  hair,  and  beautiful  features,  so  that 
my  lord  covdd  never  see  him  without  being  reminded  of 
his  disgrace:  therefore,  whenever  the  poor  young  gen- 
tleman came  into  his  presence,  he  would  drive  him  out, 
with  oaths  and  threats  which  rung  through  the  whole 
house.  He  could  not  even  bear  that  he  should  have 
any  attendance  or  respect  from  the  servants,  for  he  con- 
sidered him  quite  as  an  alien  like,  and  worse  than  a 
stranger;  and  his  lordship's  only  delight  seemed  to  con- 
sist in  putting  upon  him  every  possible  indignity  and 
affront.  But  Master  Clinton  was  a  high-spirited  young 
gentleman,  and  after  having  in  vain  endeavored  to  soothe 
my  lord  by  compliance  and  respect,  he  at  last  utterly 
avoided  his  lordship's  presence. 

"  He  gave  up  his  studies  in  a  great  measure,  and  wan- 
dered about  the  park  and  woods  all  day,  and  sonK^times 
even  half  the  night;  his  mother's  conduct  and  his  father's 


THE   DISOWNED.  195 

unkindness  seemed  to  prey  upon  his  healtli  and  mind, 
and  at  last  he  grew  almost  as  much  altered  as  my  lord. 
From  being  one  of  the  merriest  boys  possible,  full  of 
life  and  spirits,  he  became  thoughtful  and  downcast,  his 
step  lost  its  lightness,  and  his  eye  all  the  fire  which  used 
once  quite  to  warm  one's  heart  when  one  looked  at  it: 
in  short,  sir,  the  sins  of  the  mother  were  visited  as  much 
upon  the  child  as  the  husband.  (Xot  the  least  tawny, 
sir,  you  see,  though  it  is  so  old!) 

"  My  lord  at  first  seemed  to  be  glad  that  he  now  never 
saw  his  son;  but,  by  degrees,  I  think,  he  missed  the 
pleasure  of  venting  his  spleen  upon  him;  and  so  he 
ordered  my  young  master  not  to  stir  out  without  his 
leave,  and  confined  him  closer  than  ever  to  his  studies. 
Well,  sir  (if  it  were  not  for  this  port  I  could  not  get  out 
another  sentence ! ) ,  there  used  then  to  be  sad  scenes 
between  them:  my  lord  was  a  terribly  passionate  man, 
and  said  things  sharper  than  a  two-edged  sword,  as  the 
Psalms  express  it;  and  though  Master  Clinton  was  one 
of  the  mildest  and  best-tempered  boys  imaginable,  yet 
he  could  not  at  all  times  curb  his  spirit;  and,  to  my 
mind,  Avhen  a  man  is  perpetually  declaring  he  is  not 
your  father,  one  may  now  and  then  be  forgiven  in  for- 
getting that  you  are  to  behave  as  his  son. 

"  Things  went  on  in  this  way  sadly  enough  for  about 
three  years  and  a  half,  when  Master  Clinton  was  nearly 
eighteen.  One  evening,  after  my  lord  had  been  un- 
usually stormy.  Master  Clinton's  spirit  warmed,  I  sup- 
pose, and  from  word  to  word  the  dispute  increased,  till 
my  lord,  in  a  furious  rage,  ordered  in  the  servants,  and 
told  them  to  horsewhip  his  son.  Imagine,  sir,  what  a 
disgrace  to  that  noble  house !  But  there  Avas  not  one  of 
them  who  would  not  rather  have  cut  off  his  right  ]iand 
than  laid  a  finger  upon  Master  Clinton,  so  greatly  was 


196  THE   DISOWNED. 

he  beloved;  and  at  last  my  lord  summoned  his  own 
gentleman,  a  German,  six  feet  high,  entirely  devoted  to 
his  lordship,  and  commanded  him,  upon  pain  of  instant 
dismissal,  to  make  use  in  his  presence  of  a  horsewhip 
which  he  put  into  his  hand. 

"The  German  did  not  dare  refuse,  so  he  approached 
Master  Clinton.  The  servants  were  still  in  the  room, 
and  perhaps  they  would  have  been  bold  enough  to  rescue 
Master  Clintcn,  had  there  been  any  need  of  their  assist- 
ance; but  he  was  a  tall  youth,  as  bold  as  a  hero,  and 
Avhen  the  German  approached,  he  caught  him  by  the 
throat,  threw  him  down,  and  very  nearly  strangled  liim ; 
he  then,  while  my  lord  was  speechless  with  rage,  left 
the  room,  and  did  not  return  all  night.  (What  a  body 
it  has,  sir,  — ah!) 

"  The  next  morning  I  was  in  a  little  room  adjoining 
my  lord's  study,  looking  over  some  papers  and  maps. 
His  lordship  did  not  know  of  my  presence,  but  was 
sitting  alone  at  breakfast,  when  Master  Clinton  sud- 
denly entered  the  study;  the  door  leading  to  my  room 
was  ajar,  and  I  heard  all  the  conversation  that  ensued. 

"  My  lord  asked  him  very  angrily  how  he  had  dared 
absent  himself  all  night;  but  Master  Clinton,  making 
no  reply  to  this  question,  said,  in  a  very  calm,  loud 
voice,  which  I  think  I  hear  now,  '  My  lord,  after  the 
insult  you  have  offered  to  me,  it  is  perhaps  unnecessary 
to  observe  that  nothing  could  induce  me  to  remain  under 
your  roof.  I  come,  therefore,  to  take  my  last  leave  of 
you.' 

"He  paused,  and  my  lord  (probably,  like  me,  being 
taken  by  surprise)  making  no  reply,  he  continued. 
*  You  have  often  told  me,  my  lord,  that  1  am  not  your 
son;  if  this  be  possible,  so  much  the  more  must  you 
rejoice  at  the  idea  of  ridding  your  presence   of  an  in- 


THE    DISOWNED.  197 

truder.'  'And  how,  sir,  do  you  expect  to  live,  except 
upon  my  bounty  1 '  exclaimed  my  lord.  ^  You  remem- 
ber,' answered  my  young  master,  '  that  a  humble  de- 
pendent of  my  mother's  family,  who  had  been  our 
governess  in  childhood,  left  me,  at  her  death,  the  earn- 
ings of  her  life.  I  believe  they  amount  to  nearly  a 
thousand  pounds,  —  I  look  to  your  lordship's  honor, 
either  for  the  principal  or  the  yearly  interest,  as  may 
please  you  best :  farther  I  ask  not  from  you. '  '  And  do 
you  think,  sir,'  cried  my  lord,  almost  screaming  with 
passion,  '  that  upon  that  beggarly  pittance  you  shall  go 
forth  to  dishonor,  more  than  it  is  yet  dishonored,  the 
name  of  my  ancient  house?  Do  you  think,  sir,  that 
that  name  to  which  you  have  no  pretension,  though  the 
law  iniquitously  grants  it  you,  shall  be  sullied  either 
with  trade  or  robbery  1  —  for  to  one  or  the  other  you  must 
necessarily  be  driven. '  '  I  foresaw  your  speech,  my 
lord,  and  am  prepared  with  an  answer.  Far  be  it  from 
me  to  thrust  myself  into  any  familj'',  the  head  of  which 
thinks  proper  to  reject  me,  — far  be  it  from  me  to  honor 
my  humble  fortunes  with  a  name  which  I  am  as  Avilling 
as  yourself  to  disown:  I  purpose,  therefore,  to  adopt  a 
new  one;  and,  whatever  may  be  my  future  fate,  that 
name  will  screen  me  both  from  your  remembrance  and  the 
world's  knowledge.     Are  you  satisfied  now,  my  lord?  ' 

"  His  lordship  did  not  answer  for  some  minutes:  at 
last  he  said  sneeringly,  'Go,  boy,  go!  I  am  delighted 
to  hear  you  have  decided  so  well.  Leave  word  with  my 
steward  where  you  wish  your  clothes  to  be  sent  to  you : 
Heaven  forbid  I  should  rob  you  either  of  your  wardrol^e 
or  your  princely  fortune.  Wardour  will  transmit  to  you 
the  latter,  even  to  the  last  penny,  by  the  same  convey- 
ance as  that  which  is  honored  by  the  former.  And  now 
good  morning,  sir;    yet  stay  and  mark   my  words, — 


198  THE    DISOWNED. 

never  dare  to  re-enter  my  house,  or  to  expect  an  iota 
more  of  fortune  or  favor  from  me.  And  hark  you,  sir, 
—  if  you  dare  vioLate  your  word,  if  you  dare,  during  my 
life  at  least,  assume  a  name  which  you  were  born  to 
sully,  my  curse,  my  deepest,  heartiest,  eternal  curse,  bo 
upon  your  head  in  this  world  and  the  next! '  *  Fear 
not,  my  lord:  my  word  is  pledged,'  said  the  young  gen- 
tleman ;  and  the  next  moment  I  heard  his  parting  step 
in  the  hall. 

"Sir,  my  heart  was  full  (your  glass  is  empty!),  and 
my  head  spun  round  as  if  I  were  on  a  precipice;  but  I 
was  determined  my  young  master  should  not  go  till  I 
had  cauglit  another  glimpse  of  his  dear  face,  so  I  gently 
left  the  room  I  was  in,  and,  hastening  out  of  the  house 
by  a  private  entrance,  met  Master  Clinton  in  the  park, 
not  very  far  from  the  spot  where  I  saw  you,  sir,  just 
now.  To  my  surprise,  there  was  no  sign  of  grief  or 
agitation  upon  his  countenance :  I  had  never  seen  him 
look  so  proud,  or,  for  years,  so  happy. 

"  *  Wardour,'  said  he,  in  a  gay  tone,  when  he  saw  me, 
*  I  was  going  to  your  house :  my  father  has  at  last 
resolved  that  I  should,  like  my  brother,  commence  my 
travels,  and  I  wish  to  leave  with  you  the  address  of  the 
place  to  which  my  clothes,  etc.,  will  be  sent.' 

"I  could  not  contain  any  longer  when  I  heard  this, 
sir;  I  burst  into  tears,  confessed  that  I  had  accidentally 
heard  his  conversation  with  my  lord,  and  besought  him 
not  to  depart  so  hastily,  and  with  so  small  a  fortune; 
but  he  sliook  his  head,  and  would  not  hear  me.  '  Be- 
lieve me,  my  good  Wardour,'  said  he,  "  tliat  since  my 
unhappy  mother's  flight,  I  have  never  felt  so  elated  or 
so  liappy  as  I  do  now :  one  should  go  through  wliat  I 
have  done  to  learn  the  rapture  of  independence.'  He 
then  told  me  to  have  his  luggage  sent  to  him,  under  his 


THE   DISOWNED.  199 

initials  of  C.  L. ,  at  the  Golden   Fleece,  the  principal 

inn  in  the  town  of  W ,  which,  you  know,  sir,  is  at 

the  other  end  of  the  county,  on  the  road  to  London;  and 
then,  kindly  shaking  me  by  the  hand,  he  broke  away 
from  me;  but  he  turned  back  before  he  had  got  three 
paces,  and  said  (and  then,  for  the  first  time,  the  pride 
of  his  countenance  fell,  and  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes), 
'  Wardour,  do  not  divulge  what  you  have  heard;  put  as 
good  a  face  upon  my  departure  as  you  can,  and  let  the 
blame,  if  any,  fall  upon  me,  not  upon  your  lord:  after 
all,  he  is  to  be  pitied,  not  blamed,  and  I  can  never 
forget  that  he  once  loved  me. '  He  did  not  wait  for  my 
answer,  perhaps  he  did  not  like  to  show  me  how  much 
he  was  affected,  but  hurried  down  the  park,  and  I  soon 
lost  sight  of  him.  My  lord  that  very  morning  sent  for 
me,  demanded  what  address  his  son  had  left,  and  gave 
me  a  letter,  enclosing,  I  suppose,  a  bill  for  my  poor 
young  master's  fortune,  ordering  it  to  be  sent  with  the 
clothes  immediately. 

"  Sir,  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  aught  of  the  dear 
gentleman  since;  you  must  forgive  me,  I  cannot  help 
tears,  sir  (the  wine  is  Avith  you)." 

"But  the  mother,  the  mother!"  said  Clarence, 
earnestly;  "what  became  of  her?  She  died  abroad, 
two  years  since ,  did  she  not  1  " 

"  She  did,  sir,"  answered  the  honest  steward,  refilling 
his  glass.  "  They  say  that  she  lived  very  unhappily 
with  Sir  Clinton,  who  did  not  marry  her;  till  all  of 
a  sudden  she  disappeared,  none  knew  whither." 

Clarence  redoubled  his  attention. 

"At  last,"  resumed  the  steward,  "two  years  ago,  a 
letter  came  from  her  to  my  lord ;  she  was  a  nun  in  some 
convent  (in  Italy,  I  think),  to  which  she  had,  at  the 
time  of  her  disappearance,  secretly  retired.     The  letter 


200  THE   DISOAVNED. 

was  written  on  her  death-bed,  and  so  affectingly,  I  sup- 
pose, that  even  my  stern  lord  was  in  tears  for  several 
days  after  he  received  it.  But  the  principal  passage  in 
it  was  relative  to  her  son:  it  assured  my  lord  (for  so 
Avith  liis  own  lips  he  told  me  just  before  he  died,  some 
months  ago)  that  Master  Clinton  was  in  truth  his  son, 
and  that  it  was  not  till  she  had  been  tempted  many 
years  after  her  marriage  that  she  had  fallen;  she  im- 
plored my  lord  to  Ijelicve  this  '  on  the  word  of  one  for 
whom  earth  and  earth's  objects  were  no  more,'  —  those 
were  her  words. 

"  Six  months  ago,  Avhen  my  lord  lay  on  the  bed  from 
which  he  never  rose,  he  called  me  to  him,  and  said, 
*  Wardour,  you  have  always  been  the  faithful  servant  of 
our  house,  and  warmly  attached  to  my  second  son :  tell 
my  poor  boy,  if  ever  you  see  him,  that  I  did  at  last  open 
my  eyes  to  my  error,  and  acknowledge  him  as  my  child; 
tell  him  that  I  have  desired  his  brother  '  (who  was  then, 
sir,  kneeling  by  my  lord's  side) , '  as  he  values  my  bless- 
ing, to  seek  him  out  and  repair  the  wrong  I  have  done 
him;  and  add,  that  my  best  comfort  in  death  was  the 
hope  of  his  forgiveness.'  " 

"Did  he  —  did  he  say  tliat?"  exclaimed  Clarence, 
who  had  been  violently  agitated  during  the  latter  part 
of  this  recital,  and  now  sprung  from  his  seat.  "  My 
father,  my  father!  would  that  I  had  borne  Avith  thee 
more  —  mine  —  mine  was  the  fault,  —  from  tliee  should 
have  come  the  forgiveness  !  " 

The  old  steward  sat  silent  and  aghast.  At  that  in- 
stant his  wife  entered  with  a  message  of  chiding  at  the 
lateness  of  the  hour  upon  her  lip,  but  she  started  back 
when  she  saw  Clarence's  profile,  as  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  wall:  "  Good  heavens!  "  cried  she,  "  is  it,  is 
it  —  yes,  it  is  my  young  master,  my  own  foster-son  !  " 


THE  DISOWNED.  201 

Eightly  had  Clarence  conjectured  when  he  had 
shunned  her  presence.  Years  had,  indeed,  wrought  a 
change  in  his  figure  and  face:  acquaintance,  servant, 
friend,  relation,  —  the  remembrance  of  his  features  had 
passed  from  all;  but  she  who  had  nursed  him  as  an 
infant  on  her  lap,  and  fed  him  from  her  breast,  —  she 
who  had  joined  the  devotion  of  clanship  to  the  fondness 
of  a  mother,  knew  him  at  a  glance. 

"  Yes,"  cried  he,  as  he  threw  himself  into  her  with- 
ered and  aged  arms,  "  it  is  I,  the  child  you  reared,  come, 
after  many  years,  to  find  too  late,  when  a  father  is  no 
more,  that  he  had  a  right  to  a  father's  home." 


202  THE  DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LXXI. 

Let  us  go  in, 
And  charge  us  there  upou  iuterrogatories. 

Shakespeare. 

"  But  did  not  any  one  recognize  you  in  your  change 
of  name  ?  "  said  the  old  foster-mother,  looking  fondly 
upon  Clarence,  as  he  sat  the  next  morning  by  her  side. 
"  How  could  any  one  forget  so  winsome  a  face  who  had 
once  seen  it  1  " 

"  You  don't  remember,"  said  Clarence  (as  we  will  yet 
continue  to  call  our  hero),  smiling,  "  that  your  husband 
had  forgotten  it. " 

"  Ay,  sir,"  cried  the  piqued  steward,  "  but  that  was  be- 
cause you  wore  your  hat  slouched  over  your  eyes ;  if  you 
had  taken  off  that,  I  should  have  known  you  directly." 

"However  that  may  be,"  said  Clarence,  unwilling  to 
dwell  longer  on  an  occurrence  which  he  saw  hurt  the 
feelings  of  the  kind  Mr.  Wardour,  "  it  is  very  easy  to 
explain  how  I  preserved  my  incognito.  You  recollect 
that  my  father  never  suffered  me  to  mix  with  my 
mother's  guests:  so  that  I  had  no  chance  of  their  remem- 
bering me,  especially,  as,  during  the  last  three  years  and 
a  half,  no  stranger  had  ever  entered  our  walls.  Add  to 
this,  that  I  was  in  the  very  time  of  life  in  which  a  few 
years  work  the  greatest  change,  and  on  going  to  London, 
I  was  thrown  entirely  among  people  who  could  never 
have  seen  me  before.  Fortunately  for  me,  I  became 
acquainted  with  my  mother's  uncle, —  circumstances 
subsequently  led  me  to  disclose  my  birth  to  him,  upon 
a  promise   that  he  would   never  call  me  by  any  other 


THE   DISOWNED.  203 

name  than  that  which  I  had  assumed.  He,  Avho  was 
the  host,  the  kindest,  the  most  generous  of  human 
beings,  took  a  liking  to  me.  He  insisted  not  only  upon 
his  relationship  to  me,  as  my  grand-uncle,  but  upon  the 
justice  of  repairing  to  me  the  wrongs  his  unhappy  niece 
had  caused  me.  The  delicacy  of  his  kindness,  the  ties 
of  blood,  and  an  accident  which  had  enabled  me  to  be  of 
some  service  to  him,  all  prevented  my  resisting  the 
weight  of  obligation  with  which  he  afterwards  oppressed 
me.  He  procured  me  an  appointment  abroad :  I  remained 
there  four  years.  When  I  returned,  I  entered,  it  is 
true,  into  very  general  society :  but  four  years  had,  as 
you  may  perceive,  altered  me  greatly;  and  even  had 
there  previously  existed  any  chance  of  my  being  recog- 
nized, that  alteration  would  probably  have  been  sufficient 
to  insure  my  secret. " 

But  your  brother,  my  present  lord,  —  did  you  never 
meet  him,  sir?  " 

"Often,  my  good  mother;  but  you  remember  that  I 
was  little  more  than  six  years  old  when  he  left  England, 
and  when  he  next  saw  me  I  was  about  two-and-twenty : 
it  would  have  been  next  to  a  miracle,  or  at  least,  would 
have  required  the  eyes  of  love  like  yours,  to  have  re- 
called me  to  memory  after  such  an  absence. 

"  Well,  —  to  return  to  my  story,  —  I  succeeded,  partly 
as  his  nearest  relation,  but  principally  from  an  affection 
deai'er  than  blood,  to  the  fortune  of  my  grand-uncle, 
Mr.  Talbot.  Fate  prospered  with  me:  I  rose  in  the 
world's  esteem  and  honor,  and  soon  became  prouder  of 
my  borrowed  appellation  than  of  all  the  titles  of  my 
lordly  line.  Circumstances  occurring  within  the  last 
week,  which  it  will  be  needless  to  relate,  but  which 
may  have  the  greatest  influence  over  my  future  life, 
made  it  necessary  to  do  what  I  had  onoe  resolved  I  would 


204  THE   DISOWNED. 

nevor  do, —  prove  mj'-  identity  and  origin.  Accordingly, 
I  came  here  to  seek  you." 

"  ]>ut  why  did  not  my  honored  young  master  disclose 
himself  last  night?  "  asked  the  steward. 

"I  might  say,"  answered  Clarence,  "because  I  an- 
ticipated great  pleasure  in  a  surprise ;  hut  I  liad  another 
reason,  —  it  was  this:  I  had  heard  of  my  poor  father's 
death,  and  I  was  painfully  anxious  to  learn  if,  at  the 
last,  he  had  testified  any  relenting  towards  me, — and 
yet  more  so  to  ascertain  the  manner  of  my  unfortunate 
mother's  fate.  Both  abroad  and  in  England  I  had 
sought  tidings  of  her  everywhere,  but  in  vain;  in  men- 
tioning my  mother's  retiring  into  a  convent,  you  have 
explained  the  reason  wliy  my  efforts  were  so  fruitless. 
With  these  two  objects  in  vieM',  I  thought  myself  more 
likely  to  learn  the  whole  truth  as  a  stranger  than  in  my 
proper  person ;  for  in  the  latter  case  I  deemed  it  probable 
that  your  delicacy  and  kindness  might  tempt  you  to 
conceal  whatever  was  calculated  to  wound  my  feelings, 
and  to  exaggerate  anything  that  might  tend  to  flatter  or 
to  soothe  them.  Thank  Heaven,  I  now  learn  that  I 
have  a  right  to  the  name  my  boyhood  bore,  that  my 
birth  is  not  branded  with  the  foulest  of  private  crimes, 
and  that  in  death  my  father's  heart  yearned  to  his  too 
hasty  but  repentant  son.  Enough  of  this, —  I  have  now 
only  to  request  you,  my  friend,  to  accompany  me  before 
daybreak  on  Wednesday  morning,  to  a  place  several  miles 
hence.  Your  presence  there  will  be  necessary  to  sub- 
stantiate the  proof  for  which  I  came  hither." 

"With  all  my  heart,  sir,"  cried  the  honest  steward ; 
"  and  after  Wednesday  you  will,  I  trust,  resume  your 
rightful  name  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Clarence j  "  since  I  am  no  longer 
•  the  Disowned. '  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  205 

Leaving  Clarence  now  for  a  brief  while  to  renew  his 
acquaintance  with  the  scenes  of  his  childhood,  and  to 
offer  the  tribute  of  his  filial  tears  to  the  ashes  of  a  father 
whose  injustice  had  been  but  "  the  stinging  of  a  heart  the 
world  had  stung."  v/e  return  to  some  old  acquaintances 
in  the  various  conduct  of  our  drama. 


206  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LXXII. 

Upon  his  couch  the  veiled  Mokanna  lay.  —  The  Veiled  Prophet. 

The  autumn  sun  lu'oke  through  an  apartment  in  a  villa 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Lontlon,  furnislied  with  the  most 
prodigal,  yet  not  tasteless  attentioii  to  luxury  and  show, 
within  which,  beside  a  table,  strewed  with  newspapers, 
letters,  and  accounts,  lay  Eichard  Crauford,  extended 
carelessly  upon  a  sofa,  which  might  almost  have  con- 
tented the  Sybarite  who  quarrelled  with  a  rose-leaf.  At 
his  elbow  was  a  bottle  half-emptied,  and  a  wine-glass 
just  filled.  An  expression  of  triumph  and  enjoyment 
was  Adsible  upon  his  handsome  but  usually  inexpressive 
countenance. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  taking  up  a  newspaper,  "  let  us  read 
this  paragraph  again.  What  a  beautiful  sensation  it  is 
to   see   one's   name   in   print!  — '  We  understand  that 

Richard  Crauford,  Esq.,  M..P.  for ,  is  to  be  raised 

to  the  dignity  of  the  peerage.  There  does  not,  perhaps, 
exist  in  the  country  a  gentleman  more  universally  be- 
loved and  esteemed '  (mark  that,  Dicky  Crauford). 
'  The  invariable  generosity  with  which  his  immense 
wealth  has  been  employed,  his  high  professional  honor, 
the  undeviating  and  consistent  integrity  of  his  jjolitical 
career  '  (ay,  to  be  sure,  it  is  only  your  honest  fools 
who  are  inconsistent :  no  man  can  deviate  who  has  one 
firm  principle,  self-interest),  —  '  his  manly  and  energetic 
attention  to  the  welfare  of  religion  '  (he,  he,  he!),  '  con- 
joined to  a  fortune    almost  incalculable,   rendered  this 


THE  DISOWNED.  207 

condescension  of  our  gracious  sovereign  no  less  judicious 
than  deserved!  We  hear  that  the  title  proposed  for  the 
new  peer  is  that  of  Viscount  Innisdale,  which,  we  be- 
lieve, was  formerly  in  the  noble  family  of  which  Mr. 
Crauford  is  a  distant  branch.' 

"  He !  he  !  he  !  Bravo  !  bravo  !  Viscount  Innisdale  ! 
—  noble  family  —  distant  branch  —  the  devil  I  am! 
What  an  ignoramus  my  father  was,  not  to  know  that! 
Why,  rest  his  soul,  he  never  knew  who  his  grandfather 
was ;  but  the  world  shall  not  be  equally  ignorant  of  that 
important  point.  Let  me  see,  who  shall  be  Viscount 
Innisdale's  great-grandfather?  Well,  well,  whoever  he 
is,  here  's  long  life  to  his  great-grandson!  '  Incalculable 
fortune!  '  Ay,  ay;  I  hope  at  all  events,  it  will  never  be 
calculated.  But  now  for  my  letters.  Bah ,  —  this  wine 
is  a  thought  too  acid  for  the  cellars  of  Viscount  Innis- 
dale!     What!    another   from    Mother    H !     Dark 

eyes,  small  mouth,  sings  like  an  angel,  eighteen!  Pish! 
I  am  too  old  for  such  follies  now;  'tis  not  pretty  for 
Viscount  Innisdale.  Humph !  —  Lisbon :  seven  hundred 
pounds  five  shillings  and  seven  pence,  — half-penny,  is 
it,  or  farthing?  I  must  note  that  down.  Loan  for 
King  of  Prussia.  Well,  must  negotiate  that  to-morrow. 
Ah ,  Hockit  the  wine-merchant  —  pipe  of  claret  in  the 
docks  —  vintage  of  17 — .  Bravo !  all  goes  smooth  for 
Viscount  Innisdale!  Pish!  from  my  damnable  wife! 
What  a  pill  for  my  lordship !     What  says  she  ? 

Dawlish,  Devonshire. 

You  have  not,  my  dearest  Richard,  answered  my  letters 
for  months.  I  do  not,  however,  presume  to  complain  of  your 
silence  :  I  know  well  that  you  have  a  great  deal  to  occupy 
your  time,  both  in  business  and  pleasure.  But  one  little  line, 
dear  Richard,  —  one  little  line,  surely,  that  is  not  too  much 
now  and  then.     I  am  most  truly  sorry  to  trouble  you  again 


208  THE   DISOWNED. 

about  money;  and  you  must  know  that  I  strive  to  be  as  snvino^ 
as  possible  [Pish  I — curse  the  woman;  sent  her  twenty 
pounds  three  months  ago  !]  ;  but  I  really  am  so  distressed,  and 
the  people  here  are  so  pressing  ;  and  at  all  events,  I  cannot 
bear  the  thought  of  your  wife  being  disgraced.  Pray,  forgive 
me,  Richard,  and  believe  how  painful  it  is  in  me  to  say  so 
much.  I  know  you  will  answer  this  I  and,  oh,  do,  do  tell  me 
how  you  are. 

Ever  your  affectionate  wife, 

Caroline  Crauford. 

"  Was  there  ever  poor  man  so  plagued  1  Where  's 
my  note-book?  Mem.  — Send  Car.  to-morrow  £20,  to 
last    her  the    rest  of   the  year.     l\Iem.  —  Send  Mother 

H £100.    Mem.  —  Pay  Hockit's  bill ,  £830.    Bless 

me,  what  shall  I  do  with  Viscountess  Innisdale?  Now, 
if  I  were  not  married,  I  would  be  son-in-law  to  a  duke. 
Mem.  — Go  doAvn  to  Dawlish,  and  see  if  she  won't  die 
soon.  Healthy  situation,  I  fear:  devilish  unlucky, — 
must  be  changed.  IMem.  —  Swamps  in  Essex.  Who  's 
that?" 

A  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  Mr.  Crauford  in  his 
meditations.  He  started  up,  hurried  the  bottle  and 
glass  under  the  sofa,  where  the  descending  drapery  com- 
pletely hid  them ;  and  taking  up  a  newspaper,  said  in  a 
gentle  tone,  "Come  in."  A  small,  thin  man,  bowing 
at  every  step,  entered. 

"  Ah,  Bradley,  is  it  you,  my  good  fellow?  "  said  Crau- 
ford: "glad  to  see  you,  —  a  fine  morning;  but  wliat 
brings  you  from  town  so  early  ?  " 

"  Wliy ,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Bradley,  very  obsequiously, 
"  sometliing  unpleasant  has  —  " 

"Merciful  Heaven!"  cried  Crauford,  blanched  into 
the  wliiteness  of  dcntb,  ami  starting  up  from  tlie  sofa 
with  a  violence  which  frightened  the  timid  Mr.  Bradley 


THE   DISOWNED.  209 

to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  —  "  the  counting-house, 
the  books,  —  ail  safe  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes,  at  present,  but —  " 

"  But  what,  man  1  " 

"  Why,  honored  sir,"  resumed  Mr.  Bradley,  bowing 
to  the  ground,  "your  partner,  Mr.  Jessopp,  has  been 
very  inquisitive  about  the  accounts.  He  says  ]Mr.  Da 
Costa,  the  Spanish  merchant,  has  been  insinuating  very 
unpleasant  hints,  and  that  he  must  have  a  conversation 
with  you  at  your  earliest  convenience;  and  when,  sir,  I 
ventured  to  remonstrate  about  the  unreasonableness  of 
attending  to  what  Mr.  Da  Costa  said,  Mr.  Jessopp  was 
quite  abusive,  and  declared  that  there  seemed  some  very 
mysterious  communication  between  you  (begging  your 
pardon,  sir)  and  me,  and  that  he  did  not  know  what 
business  I,  who  had  no  share  in  the  firm,  had  to  inter- 
fere." 

"But,"  said  Crauford,  "you  were  civil  to  him,  did 
not  reply  hotly,  —  eh,  my  good  Bradley  1  " 

"Lord  forbid,  sir, — Lord  forbid,  that  I  should  not 
know  my  place  better,  or  that  I  should  give  an  unbe- 
coming word  to  the  partner  of  my  honored  benefactor. 
But,  sir,  if  I  dare  venture  to  say  so,  I  think  Mr.  Jes- 
sopp is  a  little  jealous  or  so  of  you;  he  seemed  quite  in 
a  passion  at  a  paragraph  in  the  paper  about  my  honored 
master's  becoming  a  lord." 

"Right,  honest  Bradley,  right:  he  is  jealous,  —  we 
must  soothe  him.  Go,  my  good  fellow,  —  go  to  him  with 
my  compliments,  and  say  that  I  will  be  with  him  by 
one.     Never  fear,  this  business  will  be  easily  settled. " 

And  bowing  himself  out  of  the  room,  Bradley  with- 
drew. 

Left  alone,  a  dark  cloud  gathered  over  the  brow  of  Mr. 
Crauford. 

VOL.  II. — 14 


210  THE   DISOWNED. 

**1  am  on  a  precipice,"  thought  he;  "  but  if  my  own 
brain  does  not  turn  giddy  witli  the  prospect,  all  yet  may 
be  safe.  Cruel  necessity,  that  obliged  me  to  admit  an- 
other into  the  business,  that  foiled  me  of  Mordaunt,  and 
drove  me  upon  this  fawning  rascal!  so,  so,  —  I  almost 
think  there  is  a  Providence,  now  that  Mordaunt  has 
grown  rich;  but  then  his  wife  died, — ay,  ay,  —  God 
saved  him,  but  the  devil  killed  her.^  He,  he,  he! 
But,  seriously  —  seriously,  there  is  danger  in  the  very 
air  I  breathe!  I  must  away  to  that  envious  Jessopp 
instantly;  but  first  let  me  finish  the  bottle." 

1  Dieu  a  puni  ce  fripon^  le  diable  a  noye  les!  autres.  —  Voltaire  : 
Candide, 


THE   DISOWNED.  211 


CHAPTER   LXXIII. 

A  strange  harmonious  inclination 
Of  all  degrees  to  reformation. 


Hudibras. 


About   seven   miles   from   TV ,  on   the  main  road 

from ,  there  was,  in  17 — ,  a  solitary  public  house, 

which,  by  the  by,  is  now  a  magnificent  hotel.  Like 
many  of  its  brethren,  in  the  more  courtly  vicinity  of 
the  metropolis,  this  amcemim  hospitiuni peregrince gentis 
then  had  its  peculiar  renown  for  certain  dainties  of  the 
palate;  and  various  in  degree  and  character  were  the 
numerous  parties  from  the  neighboring  towns  and  farms, 
which,  upon  every  legitimate  holiday  were  wont  to  as- 
semble at  the  mansion  of  mine  host  of  the  "  Jolly 
Angler,"  in  order  to  feast  upon  eel -pie,  and  grow  merry 
over  the  true  Herefordshire  cider. 

But  upon  that  especial  day  on  which  we  are  about  to 
introduce  our  reader  into  the  narrow  confines  of  its  com- 
mon parlor,  the  said  hostelry  was  crowded  with  persons 
of  a  very  difi'erent  description  from  the  peaceable  idlers 
who  were  ordinarily  wont  to  empty  mine  host's  larder, 
and  forget  the  price  of  corn  over  the  divine  inspirations 
of  pomarial  nectar.  Instead  of  the  indolent  satisfied  air 
of  the  saturnalian  merrymaker,  the  vagrant  angler,  or  the 
gentleman  farmer,  with  his  comely  dame  who  "  walked 
in  silk  attire,  and  siller  had  to  spare;"  instead  of  the 
quiet  yet  glad  countenances  of  such  hunters  of  pleasure 
and  eaters  of  eel-pie,  or  the  more  obstreperous  joy  of 
urchins   let   loose  from  school  to  taste  some  brief  and 


212  THE    DISOWNED. 

perennial  recreation ,  and  mine  host's  delicacies  at  the 
same  time;  —  instead  of  these,  the  little  parlor  presented 
a  various  and  perturbed  group,  upon  Avhose  features 
neither  eel-pie  nor  Herefordshire  cider  had  wrought  the 
relaxation  of  a  holiday,  or  the  serenity  of  a  momentary 
content. 

The  day  to  which  we  now  refer  was  the  one  immedi- 
ately preceding  that  appointed  for  the  far-famed  meeting 

at  W ;  and  many  of  the  patriots,  false  or  real,  who 

journeyed  from  a  distance  to  attend  that  rendezvous,  had 
halted  at  our  host's  of  the  "Jolly  Angler:"  both  as 
being  within  a  convenient  space  from  the  appointed  spot, 
and  as  a  tabernacle  where  promiscuous  intrusion,  and 
(haply)  immoderate  charges,  were  less  likely  to  occur 
than  at  the  bustling  and  somewhat  extortionary  hotels 
and  inns  of  the  town  of  W . 

The  times  in  Avhich  this  meeting  was  held  were  those 
of  great  popular  excitement  and  discontent;  and  the 
purport  of  the  meeting  proposed  was  to  petition  l*arlia- 
ment  against  the  continuance  of  the  American  war,  and 
the  king  against  the  continuance  of  his  ministers. 

Placards,  of  an  unusually  inflammatory  and  impru- 
dent nature,  had  given  great  alarm  to  the  more  sober  and 

well-disposed  persons  in  the  neighborhood  of  W ; 

and  so  much  fear  was  felt  or  assumed  upon  the  occasion, 
that  a  new  detachment  of  Lord  Ulswater's  regiment  had 
been  especially  ordered  into  the  town ;  and  it  was  gen- 
erally rumored  that  the  legal  authorities  would  interfere, 
even  by  force,  for  the  dispersion  of  the  meeting  in  ques- 
tion. These  circumstances  had  given  the  measure  a  de- 
gree of  general  and  anxious  interest  which  it  would  not 
otherwise  have  excited;  and  while  everybody  talked  of 
the  danger  of  attending  the  assembly,  everybody  re- 
solved to  thrust  himself  into  it. 


THE   DISOWNED.  213 

It  was  about  the  goodly  hour  of  noon ,  and  the  persons 
assembled  were  six  in  number,  all  members  of  the  most 
violent  party,  and  generally  considered  by  friend  and  foe 
as  embracers  of  republican  tenets.  One  of  these,  a  little, 
oily,  corpulent  personage,  would  have  appeared  far  too 
sleek  and  well-fed  for  a  disturber  of  things  existing,  had 
not  a  freckled,  pimpled,  and  fiery  face,  a  knit  brow,  and 
a  small,  black  eye  of  intolerable  fierceness,  belied  the 
steady  and  contented  appearance  of  his  frame  and  girth. 
This  gentleman,  by  name  Christopher  Culpepper,  spoke 
in  a  quick,  muffled,  shuffling  sort  of  tone,  like  the  pace 
of  a  Welsh  pony,  somewhat  lame,  perfectly  broken- 
winded,  but  an  exemplary  ambler  for  all  that. 

Next  to  him  sat,  with  hands  clasped  over  his  knees,  a 
thin,  small  man,  with  a  countenance  prematurely  wrin- 
kled, and  an  air  of  great  dejection.  Poor  Castleton !  his 
had  been,  indeed,  the  bitter  lot  of  a  man,  honest  but 
weak,  who  attaches  himself,  heart  and  soul,  to  a  public 
cause  which,  in  his  life  at  least,  is  hopeless.  Three 
other  men  were  sitting  by  the  open  window,  disputing, 
with  the  most  vehement  gestures,  upon  the  character  of 
Wilkes;  and  at  the  other  window,  alone,  silent,  and 
absorbed,  sat  a  man  whose  appearance  and  features  were 
singularly  calculated  to  arrest  and  to  concentrate  atten- 
tion. His  raven  hair,  grizzled  with  the  first  advance  of 
age,  still  preserved  its  strong  wiry  curl  and  luxuriant 
thickness.  His  brows,  large,  bushy,  and  indicative  of 
great  determination,  met  over  eyes  which,  at  that 
moment,  were  fixed  upon  vacancy  with  a  look  of  thought 
and  calmness  very  unusual  to  tlieir  ordinary  restless  and 
rapid  glances.  His  mouth,  that  great  seat  of  character, 
was  firmly  and  obstinately  shut;  and  though,  at  the 
first  observation,  its  downward  curve  and  iron  severity 
wore  the  appearance  of  unmitigated  harshness,  disdain, 


214  THE   DISOWNED. 

and  resolve,  yet  a  more  attentive  deducer  of  signs  from 
features  would  not  have  been  able  to  detect  in  its  expres- 
sion anything  resembling  selfishness  or  sensuality,  and 
in  that  absence  would  have  found  sufFicieiit  to  rcdt'oni 
the  more  repellent  indications  of  mind  which  it 
betrayed. 

Presently  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  landlord, 
making  some  apology  to  both  parties  for  having  no  other 
apartment  unoccupied,  introduced  a  personage  whose 
dress  and  air,  as  well  as  a  kind  of  saddle-bag  which  he 
would  not  intrust  to  any  other  bearer  than  himself,  ap- 
peared to  denote  him  as  one  rather  addicted  to  mercantile 
than  political  speculations.  Certainly  he  did  not  seem 
much  at  home  among  the  patriotic  reformers,  who,  hav- 
ing glared  upon  him  for  a  single  moment,  renewed,  with- 
out remark,  their  several  attitudes  or  occupations. 

The  stranger,  after  a  brief  pause,  approached  the 
solitary  reformer  Avhom  we  last  described,  and  making 
a  salutation,  half  timorous  and  half  familiar,  thus  ac- 
costed him :  — 

"  Your  servant,  Mr.  Wolfe,  your  servant.  I  think 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you  a  long  time  ago  at  the 
Westminster  election:  very  eloquent  you  were,  sir, 
very!  " 

Wolfe  looked  up  for  an  instant  at  the  face  of  the 
speaker,  and,  not  recognizing  it,  turned  abruptl}''  away, 
threw  open  the  window,  and,  leaning  out,  appeared  de- 
sirous of  escaping  from  all  further  intrusion  on  the  part 
of  the  stranger;  but  that  gentleman  was  by  no  means  of 
a  nature  easily  abashed. 

"  Fine  day,  sir,  for  the  time  of  year,  — very  fine  day, 
indeed.  October  is  a  charming  month,  as  my  lamented 
friend  and  customer,  the  late  Lady  Waddilove,  was 
accustomed  to  say.     Talking  of  that,  sir,  as  the  winter 


THE   DISOWNED.  215 

is  new  approaching,  do  you  not  think  it  -would  be  pru- 
dent, j\lr.  Wolfe,  to  provide  yourself  Avith  an  umbrella? 
I  have  an  admirable  one  which  I  might  dispose  of :  it  is 
from  the  effects  of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove.  '  Brown,' 
said  her  ladyship,  a  short  time  before  her  death,  — 
'  BroM'n,  you  are  a  good  creature:  but  you  ask  too  much 
for  the  Dresden  vase.  "We  have  known  each  other  a 
long  time,  —  you  must  take  fourteen  pounds  ten  shillings, 
and  you  may  have  that  umbrella  in  the  corner,  into  the 
bargain.'  Mr.  Wolfe,  the  bargain  was  completed,  and 
the  umbrella  became  mine,  — it  may  now  be  yours." 

And  so  saying,  Mr.  Brown,  depositing  his  saddle-bag 
on  the  ground,  proceeded  to  unfold  an  umbrella  of 
singular  antiquity  and  form,  —  a  very  long  stick,  tipped 
with  ivory,  being  surmounted  with  about  a  quarter  of  a 
yard  of  sea-green  silk,  somewhat  discolored  by  time  and 
wear. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  article,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  ad- 
miringly surveying  it,  —  "  is  it  not  ?  " 

"Pshaw!"  said  Wolfe,  impatiently;  "what  have  I 
to  do  with  your  goods  and  chattels  ?  —  go  and  palm  the 
cheatings  and  impositions  of  your  pitiful  trade  upon 
some  easier  gull." 

"Cheatings  and  impositions,  Mr.  Wolfe!  "  cried  the 
slandered  Brown,  perfectly  aghast:  "1  would  have  you 
to  know,  sir,  that  I  have  served  the  first  families  in  the 
country,  ay,  and  in  this  county  too,  and  never  had  such 
words  applied  to  me  before.  Sir,  there  was  the  late 
Lady  Waddilove,  and  the  respected  Mrs.  Minden, 
and  her  nephew  the  ambassador,  and  the  Duchess  of 
Pugadale,  and  Mr.  Mordaunt  of  Mordaunt  Court,  poor 
gentleman,  —  though  he  is  poor  no  more,"  and  Mr. 
Brown  proceeded  to  enumerate  the  long  list  of  his 
customers. 


216  THE   DISOWNED. 

Now,  we  have  stated  that  Wolfe,  though  he  had  never 
known  the  rank  of  Mordaunt,  was  acciuainted  with  his 
real  name;  and  as  the  sound  caught  his  ear,  he  mut- 
tered, "Mordaunt,  Mordaunt, — ay,  but  not  my  former 
acquaintance ,  —  not  him  who  was  called  Glendower. 
No,  no,  —  the  man  cannot  mean  him." 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  do  mean  him,"  cried  Brown,  in  a 
rage.  "  I  do  mean  that  Mr.  Glendower,  who  afterwards 
took  anotlier  name,  but  whose  real  appellation  is  Mr. 
Algernon  Mordaunt  of  Mordaunt  Court,  in  this  county, 
Bir. " 

"What  description  of  man  is  he?"  said  Wolfe; 
"  rather  tall,  slender,  with  an  air  and  mien  like  a  king's, 
I  was  going  to  say,  —  but  better  than  a  king's,  —  like  a 
free  man's?  " 

"  Ay,  ay, —  the  same,"  answered  Mr.  Brown,  sullenly; 
"but  why  should  I  tell  you,  — '  cheating  and  imposi- 
tion,' indeed!  —  I  am  sure  my  word  can  be  of  no  avail  to 
you,  —  and  1  sha'nH  stay  here  any  longer  to  be  insulted, 
Mr.  Wolfe,  which  I  am  sure,  talking  of  freemen,  no 
freeman  ought  to  submit  to  j  but  as  the  late  Lady  Wad- 
dilove  once  very  wisely  said  to  me,  '  Brown,  never 
have  anything  to  do  with  those  republicans,  they  are 
the  worst  tyrants  of  all.'  Good  morning,  Mr.  Wolfe; 
gentlemen,  your  servant,  —  'cheating  and  imposition,' 
indeed !  "  —  and  Mr.  Brown  banged  the  door  as  he 
departed. 

"Wolfe,"  said  Mr.  Christopher  Culpepper,  "  who  is 
that  man  1  " 

"  I  know  not,"  answered  the  republican,  laconically, 
and  gazing  on  the  ground,  apparently  in  thought. 

"  He  has  the  air  of  a  slave,"  quoth  the  free  Culpepper, 
"  and  slaves  cannot  bear  the  company  of  freemen ;  there- 
fore  he  did  right  to  go  —  whe-w!      Had  we  a  proper 


THE   DISOWNED.  217 

and  thorough  and  efficient  reform,  human  nature  would 
not  be  thus  debased  by  trades  and  callings  and  barters 
and  exchange,  for  all  professions  are  injurious  to  the 
character  and  dignity  of  man,  — Avhe-w!  —  but,  as  I 
shall  prove  upon  the  hustings  to-morrow,  it  is  in  vain 
to  hope  for  any  amendment  in  the  wretched  state  of  things 
until  the  people  of  these  realms  are  fully,  freely,  and 
fairly  represented ,  —  whe-w !  Gentlemen,  it  is  past 
two,  and  we  have  not  ordered  dinner,  —  whe-w!" 
(iV^.  B.  —  This  ejaculation  denotes  the  kind  of  snuffle 
which  lent  peculiar  energy  to  the  dicta  of  Mr. 
Culpepper. ) 

"  Eing  the  bell,  then,  and  summon  the  landlord," 
said,  very  pertinently,  one  of  the  three  disputants  upon 
the  character  of  Wilkes. 

The  landlord  appeared;  dinner  was  ordered. 

"Pray,"  said  Wolfe,  "has  that  man,  Mr.  Brown  I 
think  he  called  himself,  left  the  inn  ?  " 

"  He  has,  sir,  for  he  was  mightily  offended  at  some- 
thing which  —  " 

"  And,"  interrupted  Wolfe,  "  how  far  hence  does  Mr. 
Mordaunt  live  ?  " 

"  About  five  miles  on  the  other  side  of  W ,"  an- 
swered mine  host. 

Wolfe  rose,  seized  his  hat,  and  was  about  to  depart. 

"Stay,  stay,"  cried  Citizen  Christopher  Culpepper; 
"  you  will  not  leave  us  till  after  dinner?  " 

"  I  shall  dine  at  W ,"  answered  Wolfe,  quitting 

the  room. 

"  Then  our  reckoning  will  be  heavier,"  said  Culpepper. 
"It  is  not  handsome  in  Wolfe  to  leave  us,  —  whe-w! 
Really  I  think  that  our  brother  in  the  great  cause  has  of 
late  relaxed  in  his  attentions  and  zeal  to  the  goddess  of 
our  devotions,  —  whe-w!  " 


218  THE   DISOWNED, 

"  It  is  human  nature!  "  cried  one  of  the  three  dispu- 
tants upon  the  character  of  Wilkes. 

"  It  is  not  human  nature!  "  cried  the  second  disputant, 
folding  his  arms  doggedly,  in  preparation  for  a  dis- 
cussion. 

"Contemptible  human  nature!"  eA'ciaimed  the  third 
disputant,  soliloquizing  with  a  supercilious  expression 
of  hateful  disdain. 

"Poor  human  nature!  "  murmured  Castleton,  looking 
upward  with  a  sigh;  and  though  we  have  not  given  to 
that  gentleman  other  words  than  these,  we  think  tliey 
are  almost  sufficient  to  let  our  readers  into  his  character. 


THE  DISOWNED.  219 


CHAPTER   LXXIV. 

Silvis,  ubi  passim 
Palantes  error  certo  de  tramite  pellit, 
Ille  sinistrorsum  hie  dextrorsum  abit ;  unus  utrique 
Error,  sed  variis  illudit  partibus.^ 

HORAT. 

As  Wolfe  strode  away  from   the   inn,  he  muttered  to 
himself,  — 

"  Can  it  be  that  Mordaunt  has  suddenly  grown  rich  ? 
If  so,  I  rejoice  at  it.  True,  that  he  was  not  for  our 
cause,  but  he  had  the  spirit  and  the  heart  which  be- 
longed to  it.  Had  he  not  been  bred  among  the  preju- 
dices of  birth,  or  had  he  lived  in  stormier  times,  he 
might  have  been  the  foremost  champion  of  freedom. 
As  it  is,  I  rather  lament  than  condemn.  Yet  I  would 
fain  see  him  once  more.  Perhaps  prosperity  may  have 
altered  his  philosophy.  But  can  he,  indeed,  be  the 
same  Mordaunt  of  whom  that  trading  itinerant  spoke  1 
Can  he  have  risen  to  the  pernicious  eminence  of  a  landed 
aristocrat?  Well,  it  is  worth  the  journey;  for  if  he 
have  power  in  the  neighborhood,  I  am  certain  that  he 
will  exert  it  for  our  protection ;  and  at  the  worst,  I  shall 
escape  from  the  idle  words  of  my  compatriots.  Oh!  if 
it  were  possible  that  the  advocates  could  debase  the 
glory  of  the  cause,  how  long  since  should  I  have  flinched 
from  the  hardship  and  the  service  to  which  my  life  is 

^  Wandering  in  those  woods  where  error  evermore  forces  life's 
stragglers  from  the  beaten  path :  this  one  deflects  to  the  left,  —  his 
fellow  chooses  the  exact  contrary.  Tlie  fault  is  all  the  same  in 
each,  but  it  excuses  itself  by  a  thousand  different  reasons. 


220  THE   DISOWNED. 

devotetl!  Solf-inlcrost,  —  envy,  tliat  snarls  at  all  above 
it,  without  even  tlic  beast's  courage  to  bite;  folly,  that 
knows  not  the  substance  of  freedom,  but  loves  the  glit- 
ter of  its  name;  fear,  that  falters;  crime,  that  seeks  in 
licentiousness  an  excuse;  disappointment,  only  craving 
occasion  to  rail;  hatred,  sourness,  boasting  of  zeal,  but 
only  venting  the  blackness  of  rancor  and  evil  passion, — ■ 
all  these  make  our  adherents,  and  give  our  foes  the 
handle  and  the  privilege  to  scorn  and  to  despise.  But 
man  chooses  the  object,  and  fate  only  furnishes  the  tools. 
Happy  for  our  posterity  that  when  the  object  is  once 
gained,  the  frailty  of  the  tools  will  be  no  more!  " 

Thus  soliloquizing,  the  republican  walked  rapidlj 
onwards,  till  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  before  his  eji 
the  form  of  Mr.  Brown,  seated  upon  a  little  rough  pony, 
and  "  whistling  as  he  went,  for  want  of  thought." 

Wolfe  quickened  his  pace,  and  soon  overtook  him. 

"  You  must  forgive  me,  my  good  man,"  said  he,  sooth' 
ingly ;  "  T  meant  not  to  impeach  your  honesty  or  your 
calling.  Perhaps  I  was  hasty  and  peevish;  and,  in  sad 
earnest,  I  have  much  to  tease  and  distract  me. " 

"Well,  sir,  well,"  answered  Mr.  Brown,  greatly  mol' 
lified:  "lam  sure  no  Christian  can  be  more  forgiving 
tlian  I  am ;  and  since  you  are  sorry  for  what  you  wero 
pleased  to  say,  let  us  think  no  more  about  it.  But 
touching  the  umbrella,  Mr.  Wolfe,  —  have  you  a  mind 
for  that  interesting  and  useful  relic  of  the  late  Lady 
Waddilove  1  " 

"  Not  at  present,  I  thank  you,"  said  Wolfe,  mildly: 
"  I  care  little  for  the  inclemencies  of  the  heavens,  and 
you  may  find  many  to  whom  your  proffered  defence  from 
them  may  be  more  acceptable.  But  tell  me  if  the 
Mr.  Mordaiuit  you  mentioned  was  ever  residing  in  town, 
and  in  very  indififerent  circumstances  1  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  221 

"  Probably  he  was,"  said  the  cautious  Brown,  who,  as 
we  before  said,  had  been  bribed  into  silence,  and  who 
now  grievously  repented  that  passion  had  betrayed  him 
into  the  imprudence  of  candor;  "but  I  really  do  not 
busy  myself  about  other  people's  affairs.  *  Brown, '  said 
the  late  Lady  Waddilove  to  me,  —  'Brown,  you  are  a 
good  creature,  and  never  talk  of  what  does  not  concern 
you.'  Those,  Mr.  Wolfe,  were  her  ladyship's  own 
words  !  " 

"  As  you  please,"  said  the  reformer,  who  did  not  want 
shrewdness,  and  saw  that  his  point  was  already  suffi- 
ciently gained,  —  "  as  you  please.  And  now,  to  change 
the  subject,  I  suppose  ^ve  shall  have  your  attendance  at 
the  meeting  at  W ,  to-morrow  1  " 

"Ay,"  replied  the  worthy  Brown;  "I  thought  it 
likely  I  should  meet  many  of  my  old  customers  in  the 
town  on  such  a  busy  occasion;  so  I  went  a  little  out  of 
my  way  home  to  London,  in  order  to  spend  a  night  or 
two  there.  Indeed,  I  have  some  valuable  articles  for 
Mr.  Glumford,  the  magistrate,  who  will  be  in  attend- 
ance to-morrow." 

"They  say,"  observed  Wolfe,  "that  the  magistrates, 
against  all  law,  right,  and  custom,  will  dare  to  inierfere 
with  and  resist  the  meeting.  Think  you  report  says 
true  ? " 

"Nay,"  returned  Brown,  prudently;  "I  cannot  ex- 
actly pretend  to  decide  the  question:  all  I  know  is 
that  Squire  Glumford  said  to  me,  at  his  own  house, 
five  days  ago,  as  he  was  draAving  on  his  boots,  '  Brown,' 
said  he, — 'Brown,  mark  my  words,  we  shall  do  for 
those  rebellious  dogs !  '  " 

"  Did  he  say  so?  "  muttered  Wolfe  between  his  teeth. 
"  Oh,  for  the  old  times,  or  those  yet  to  come,  when  our 
answer  would  have  been,  or  shall  be  —  the  sword!  " 


222  THE   DISOWNED. 

"And  you  know,"  pursued  Mr.  Brown,  "that  Lord 
Ulswater  and  his  regiment  are  in  the  town,  and  have 
even  made  great  preparations  against  the  meeting  a 
week  ago." 

"I  have  heard  tliis,"  said  Wolfe;  "but  I  cannot 
tliink  that  any  boily  of  armed  men  dare  interrupt  or 
attack  a  convocation  of  peaceable  sul)jects,  met  solely  to 
petition  rarliaiuent  against  famine  for  themselves  and 
slavery  for  their  children." 

"Famine!"  quoth  Mr.  Brown.  "Indeed  it  is  very 
true,  —  very !  —  times  are  dreadfully  bad.  I  can  scarcely 
get  my  own  living,  —  Parliament  certainly  ought  to  do 
something;  but  you  must  forgive  me,  ]\Ir.  Wolfe,  it 
may   be   dangerous   to   talk  with  you  on  tliese  matters: 

and  now  I  think  of  it,  the  sooner  I  get  to  W the 

better,  —  good  morning.  A  shower  's  coming  on,  —  you 
won't  have  the  umbrella,  then  1  " 

"  They  dare  not,"  said  Wolfe  to  himself,  "  no,  no, — 
they  dare  not  attack  us ;  they  dare  not ;  "  and  clenching 
his  fist,  he  pursued,  with  a  quicker  step  and  a  more 
erect  mien,  his  solitary  way. 

When  he  was  about  the  distance  of  three  miles  from 

W ,  he  was  overtaken  by  a  middle-aged  man,  of  a 

frank  air  and  respectable  appearance.  "  Good-day,  sir," 
said  he;  "  we  seem  to  be  journeying  the  same  way,  ^ 
will  it  be  against  your  wishes  to  join  company  1  " 

Wolfe  assented,  and  the  stranger  resumed :  — 

"  I  suppose,  sir,  you  intend  to  be  present  at  the  meet- 
ing at  W to-morrow.     There  will  be  an  immense 

concourse,  and  the  entrance  of  a  new  detachment  of  sol- 
diers, and  the  various  reports  of  the  likelihood  of  their 
interference  with  the  assembly,  make  it  an  object  of 
some  interest  and  anxiety  to  look  forward  to." 

"True  —  true,"  said  Wolfe,  slowly,  eying   his   new 


THE   DISOWNED.  223 

acquaintance  with  a  deliberate  and  scrutinizing  atten- 
tion. "It  will,  indeed,  be  interesting  to  see  how  far 
an  evil  and  hardy  government  will  venture  to  encroach 
upon  the  rights  of  the  people,  which  it  ruins  while  it 
pretends  to  rule. " 

"  Of  a  truth, "  rejoined  the  other,  "  I  rejoice  that  I 
am  no  politician.  I  believe  my  spirit  is  as  free  as  any 
cooped  in  the  narrow  dungeon  of  earth's  clay  can  well 
be ;  yet  I  confess  that  it  has  drawn  none  of  its  liberty 
from  book,  pamphlet,  speech,  or  newspaper,  of  modern 
times. " 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you,  sir,"  said  Wolfe,  sourly: 
"  the  man  who  has  health  and  education  can  find  no 
excuse  for  supineness  or  indifference  to  that  form  of 
legislation  by  which  his  country  decays  or  prospers." 

"Why,"  said  the  other,  gayly,  "  I  willingly  confess 
myself  less  of  a  patriot  than  a  philosopher;  and  as  long 
as  I  am  harmless,  I  strive  very  little  to  be  useful,  in  a 
public  capacity;  in  a  private  one,  as  a  father,  a  husband, 
and  a  neighbor,  I  trust  1  am  not  utterly  without  my 
value. " 

"  Pish  !  "  cried  Wolfe ;  "  let  no  man  who  forgets  his 
public  duties,  prate  of  his  private  merits.  I  tell  you, 
man,  that  he  who  can  advance  by  a  single  hair's-breadth, 
the  happiness  or  the  freedom  of  mankind,  has  done  more 
to  save  his  own  soul  than  if  he  had  paced  every  step  of 
the  narrow  circle  of  his  domestic  life  with  the  regularity 
of  clock-work." 

"You  may  be  right,"  quoth  the  stranger,  carelessly; 
"  but  I  look  on  things  in  the  mass,  and  perhaps  see  only 
the  superficies,  while  you,  I  perceive  already,  are  a 
lover  of  the  abstract.  For  my  part,  Harry  Fielding's 
two  definitions  seem  to  me  excellent.  'Patriot, — a 
candidate  for  a  place  I  '     '  Politics,  —  the  art  of  getting 


224  THE    DISOWNED. 

such  a  place! '     Perhaps,  sir,  as  you  seem  a  man  of  edu- 
cation, you  remember  the  words  of  our  great  novelist." 

"No!  "  answered  Wolfe,  a  little  contemptuously;  "I 
cannot  say  that  I  burden  my  memory  with  the  delete- 
rious witticisms  and  shallow  remarks  of  writers  of  fancy. 
It  has  been  a  mighty  and  spreading  evil  to  the  world, 
tliat  the  vain  fictions  of  the  poets,  or  the  exaggerations 
of  novelists,  have  been  hitherto  so  welcomed  and  ex- 
tolled. Better  had  it  been  for  us  if  the  destruction  of 
the  lettered  wealth  at  Alexandria  had  included  all  the 
lighter  works  which  have  floated,  from  their  very  levity, 
down  the  stream  of  time,  an  example  and  a  corruj^tion  to 
the  degraded  geniuses  of  later  days. " 

The  eyes  of  the  stranger  sparkled.  "Why,  you  out- 
goth  the  Goth!"  exclaimed  he,  sharply.  "But  you 
surely  preach  against  Avhat  you  have  not  studied.  Con- 
fess that  you  are  but  slightly  acquainted  with  Shake- 
speare and  Spenser  and  noble  Dan  Chaucer.  Ay,  if 
you  knew  them  as  well  as  I  do,  you  would,  like  me, 
give 

*  To  hem  faith  and  full  credfeuce, 
And  in  your  heart  have  hem  in  reverence.' " 

"  Pish  !  "  again  muttered  Wolfe,  and  then  rejoined, 
aloud,  "  It  grieves  me  to  see  time  so  wasted,  and  judg- 
ment so  perverted,  as  yours  appear  to  have  been;  but  it 
fills  me  with  pity  and  surprise,  as  well  as  grief,  to  find 
that,  so  far  from  shame  at  the  eff"eminacv  of  your  studies, 
you  appear  to  glory  and  exult  in  them." 

"  May  the  Lord  help  me,  and  ligliten  thee,"  said  Cole, 
for  it  was  he.  "  You  are  at  least  not  a  novelty  in  human 
vi^isdom,  whatever  you  may  be  in  character;  for  you  are 
far  from  the  only  one  proud  of  being  ignorant,  and  pity- 
ing those  who  are  not  so. " 


THE   DISOWNED.  225 

Wolfe  darted  one  of  his  looks  of  fire  at  the  speaker, 
who,  nothing  abashed,  met  the  glance  with  an  eye,  if 
not  as  fiery,  at  least  as  bold. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  republican,  "  that  we  shall  not  agree 
upon  the  topics  you  have  started.  If  you  still  intrude 
your  society  upon  me,  you  will  at  least  choose  some 
other  subject  of  conversation." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Cole,  whose  very  studies,  while 
tliey  had  excited  in  their  self-defence  his  momentary 
warmth,  made  him  habitually  courteous  and  urbane,  — 
"  pardon  me  for  my  hastiness  of  expression.  I  own  my- 
self in  fault."  And,  with  this  apology,  our  ex-king  slid 
into  the  new  topics  which  the  scenery  and  the  weather 
afforded  him. 

Wolfe,  bent  upon  the  object  of  his  present  mission, 
made  some  inquiries  respecting  Mordaunt;  and  though 
Cole  only  shared  the  uncertain  information  of  the  coun- 
try gossips  as  to  the  past  history  of  that  person,  yet  the 
little  he  did  know  was  sufficient  to  confirm  the  repub- 
lican in  his  belief  of  Algernon's  identity:  while  the 
ex-gypsy's  account  of  his  rank  and  reputation  in  the 
country  made  Wolfe  doubly  anxious  to  secure,  if  pos- 
sible, his  good  offices  and  interference  on  behalf  of  the 
meeting.  But  the  conversation  was  not  always  restricted 
to  neutral  and  indilferent  ground,  but  ever  and  anon 
Avandered  into  various  allusions  or  opinions,  from  the 
one,  certain  to  beget  retort  or  controversy  in  the  other. 

Had  we  time,  and  our  reader  patience,  it  would  have 
been  a  rare  and  a  fine  contrast  to  have  noted  more  at 
large  the  differences  of  thought  and  opinion  between  the 
companions;  each  in  his  several  way  so  ardent  for  lib- 
erty, and  so  impatient  of  the  control  and  customs  of 
society;  each  so  enthusiastic  for  the  same  object,  j^et  so 
coldly   contemptuous   to   the   enthusiasm   of  the    other. 

VOL.  II.  — 15 


226  THE   DISOWN KD. 

The  one  guided  only  by  his  poetical  and  erratic  tastes, 
Ihe  other  solely  by  dreams,  seeming  to  the  world  no  less 
baseless,  yet,  to  his  own  mind,  bearing  the  name  of 
stern  judgment  and  inflexilde  truth.  Both  men  of 
active  and  adventurous  spirits,  to  whom  forms  were 
fetters,  and  ceremonies  odious;  yet,  deriving  from  that 
mutual  similarity  only  pity  for  mutual  perversion,  they 
were  memoral)le  instances  of  the  great  diilerences  con- 
geniality itself  will  occasion,  and  of  the  never-ending 
varieties  Avhich  minds,  rather  under  the  influence  of 
imagination  than  judgment,  will  create. 


THE  DISOWNED.  227 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 

Gratis  anhelans,  multa  agendo,  nihil  agens.i 

Ph^drus. 

Upon  entering  the  town,  the  streets  displayed  all  the 
bustle  and  excitement  which  the  approaching  meeting 
was  eminently  calculated  to  create  in  a  place  ordmarily 
quiescent  and  undisturbed;  groups  of  men  were  scat- 
tered in  different  parts,  conversing  with  great  eagerness ; 
while  here  and  there,  some  Demosthenes  of  the  town, 
impatient  of  the  coming  strife,  was  haranguing  his  little 
knot  of  admiring  friends,  and  preparing  his  oratorical 
organs  by  petty  skirmishing  for  the  grand  battle  of  the 
morrow.  Now  and  then  the  eye  roved  upon  the  gaunt 
forms  of  Lord  Ulswater's  troopers,  as  they  strolled  idly 
along  the  streets,  in  pairs,  perfectly  uninterested  by  the 
great  event  which  set  all  the  more  peaceable  inmates  of 
the  town  in  a  ferment,  and  returning,  with  a  slighting 
and  supercilious  glance,  the  angry  looks  and  muttered 
anathemas  which,  ever  and  anon,  the  hardier  spirits  of 
the  petitioning  party  liberally  bestowed  upon  them. 

As  Wolfe  and  his  comrade  entered  the  main  street, 
the  former  was  accosted  by  some  one  of  his  compatriots, 
who,  seizing  him  by  the  arm,  was  about  to  apprise  the 
neighboring  idlers,  by  a  sudden  exclamation,  of  the  wel- 
come entrance  of  the  eloquent  and  noted  republican. 
But  Wolfe  perceived,  and  thwarted  his  design. 

"  Hush !  "  said  he,  in  a  low  voice ;  "  I  am  only  now 
on  my  way  to  an  old  friend,  who  seems  a  man  of  in- 

^  Panting  and  laboring  in  vain ;  doing  much,  —  effecting  nothing. 


228  TIIH    DISOWNED. 

fluence  in  these  parts,  and  may  be  of  avail  to  us  on  the 
morrow ;  keep  silence,  therefore,  with  regard  to  my 
coming  till  I  return.  I  would  not  have  my  errand 
interrupted." 

"  As  you  will,  '■  said  the  brother-spirit :  "  but  Avhom 
have  you  here,  —  a  follow-laborer  ?  "  and  the  reformer 
pointed  to  Cole,  who,  with  an  expression  of  shrewd 
humor,  blended  with  a  sort  ol  philosophical  compassion, 
stood  at  a  little  distance  waiting  for  Wolfe,  and  eying 
the  motley  groups  assembled  before  him. 

"  No, "  answered  Wolfe ;  "  he  is  some  vain  and  idle 
sower  of  unprofitable  flowers:  a  thing  who  loves  poetry, 
and,  for  aught  I  know,  writes  it,  but  that  reminds  me 
that  I  must  nd  myself  of  his  company,  yet  stay,  —  do 
you  know  this  neighborhood  sufficiently  to  serve  me  as 
a  guide  ?  " 

"Ay, "quoth  the  other;  "1  Avas  born  within  three 
miles  of  the   town." 

"Indeed!  "  rejoined  Wolfe;  "then,  perhaps,  you  can 
tell  me  if  there  is  any  Avay  of  reaching  a  place  called 
Mordaunt  Court,  without  passing  through  the  more 
public   and   crowded   thoroughfares." 

"  To  be  sure, "  rejoined  the  brother-spirit;  "you  have 
only  to  turn  to  the  riglit  up  yon  hill,  and  you  will  in  an 

instant  be  out  of  the  purlieus  and  precincts  of  W , 

and  on  your  shortest  road  to  Mordaunt  Court;  but  surely 
it  is  not  to  its  owner  that  you  are  bound?  " 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  Wolfe. 

"Because,"  replied  the  other,  "he  is  the  wealthiest, 
the  highest,  and,  as  report  says,  the  haughtiest  aristocrat 
of  these  pai'ts. " 

"  So  much  the  belter,  then,"  said  Wolfe,  "  can  he  aid 
ns  in  obtaining  a  quiet  hearing  to-morrow,  undisturbed 
by    those   liveried   varlets  of    hire,    who  are  termed,    in 


THE   DISOWNED.  229 

sooth,  Britain's  defence!  Much  better,  wlien  we  think 
of  all  they  cost  us  to  pamper  and  to  clothe,  should  they 
be  termed  Britain's  ruin;  but,  farewell  for  the  present; 
we  shall  meet  to-night ;  your  lodgings  —  " 

"  Yonder, "  said  the  other,  pointing  to  a  small  inn 
opposite;  and  Wolfe,  nodding  his  adieu,  returned  to 
Cole,  whose  vivacious  and  restless  nature  had  already 
made  him  impatient  of  his  companion's  delay. 

"  I  must  take  my  leave  of  you  now, "  said  Wolfe, 
"  which  I  do  with  a  hearty  exhortation  that  you  will 
change  your  studies,  fit  only  for  eifeminate  and  enslaved 
minds. " 

"  And  I  return  the  exhortation, "  answered  Cole. 
"  Your  studies  seem  to  me  tenfold  more  crippling  than 
mine :  mine  take  all  this  earth's  restraint  from  me,  and 
yours  seem  only  to  remind  you  that  all  earth  is  restraint ; 
mine  show  me  whatever  worlds  the  fondest  fancy  could 
desire;  yours  only  the  follies  and  chains  of  this.  In 
short,  while  *my  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is,'  yoi;rs  seems 
to  consider  the  whole  universe  itself  nothing  but  a  great 
meeting  for  the  purpose  of  abusing  ministers  and  de- 
manding reform !  " 

Not  too  well  pleased  by  this  answer,  and  at  the  same 
time  indisposed  to  the  delay  of  further  reply,  Wolfe 
contented  himseK  with  an  iron  sneer  of  disdain,  and 
turning  on  his  heel,  strode  rapidly  away  in  the  direction 
his  friend  had  indicated. 

Meanwhile  Cole  followed  him  with  his  eye,  till  he 
was  out  of  sight,  and  then  muttered  to  himself:  "  Xever 
was  there  a  fitter  addition  to  old  Barclay's  '  Ship  of 
Pools  ' !  I  should  not  wonder  if  this  man's  patriotism 
leads  him  from  despising  the  legislature  into  breaking  tlie 
law;  and,  faith,  the  surest  way  to  the  gallows  is  less 
through   vice  than  discontent;  yet,    I  would  fain  hope 


230  THE   DISOWNED. 

better  tilings  for  him,  —  for,  metliinks,  he  is  neither  a 
common  declaimer,  nor  an  ordinary  man. " 

With  these  words  the  honest  Cole  turned  away,  and 
strolling  towards  the  Golden  Fleece,  soon  found  him- 
self in  the  hospitable  mansion  of  Mistress  and  IVIister 
Merry  lack. 

While  the  ex-king  was  taking  his  ease  at  his  inn, 
Wolfe  proceeded  to  Mordaunt  Court.  The  result  of  the 
meeting  that  there  ensued  was  a  determination  on  the 
part  of  Algernon  to  repair  immediately  to  W . 


THE   DISOWNED.  231 


CHAPTER   LXXVT. 

The  commons  here  in  Kent  are  up  in  arms. 

Second  Part  of  Henry  VI. 

When  Mordaunt  arrived  at  W ,  he  found  that  the 

provincial  deities  (who  were  all  assembled  at  dinner  with 
the  principal  inhabitants  of  the  town),  in  whose  hands 
the  fate  of  the  meeting  was  placed,  were  in  great  doubt 
and  grievous  consternation.  He  came  in  time,  first  to 
balance  the  votes,  and  ultimately  to  decide  them.  His 
mind,  prudent  and  acute,  when  turned  to  worldly  affairs, 
saw  in  a  glance  the  harmless,  though  noisy  nature  of 
the  meeting ;  and  he  felt  that  the  worst  course  the  gov- 
ernment or  the  county  could  pursue  would  be  to  raise 
into  importance,  by  violence,  what  otherwise  would  meet 
with  ridicule  from  most,  and  indifference  from  the  rest. 

His  large  estates,  his  ancient  name,  his  high  reputa- 
tion for  talent,  joined  to  that  manner,  half  eloquent  and 
half  commanding,  which  rarely  fails  of  effect  when  de- 
liberation only  requires  a  straw  on  either  side  to  become 
decision,  —  all  these  rendered  his  interference  of  imme- 
diate avail ;  and  it  was  settled  that  the  meeting  should, 
as  similar  assemblies  had  done  before,  proceed  and  con- 
clude undisturbed  by  the  higher  powers,  so  long  as  no 
positive  act  of  sedition  to  the  government  or  danger  to 
the  town  was  committed. 

Scarcely  was  this  arrangement  agreed  upon,  before 
Lord  Ulswater,  who  had  hitherto  been  absent,  entered 
the  room  in  which  the  magisterial  conclave  was  as- 
sembled.   T\rr.  Glumford  (whom  our  readers  will  possibly 


232  THE   DISOWNED. 

rememlDer  as  the  suitor  to  Isabel  St.  Leger,  and  wlio  had 
at  first  opposed,  and  then  rehictantly  subscribed  to  IVIor- 
daunt's  interference)  bustled  up  to  him. 

"  So,  so,  my  lord, "  said  he,  "  since  I  had  the  honor  of 
seemg  your  lordship,  quite  a  new  sort  of  trump  has  been 
turned  up." 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  your  metaphorical  elegancies  of 
speech,  Mr.  Ghimford, "  said  Lord  Ulswater. 

Mr.  Glumford  explained.  Lord  Ulswater's  cheek 
grew  scarlet.  "  So  Mr.  Mordaunt  has  effected  this  wise 
alteration,"  said  he. 

"  Nobody  else,  my  lord,  nobody  else ;  and  I  am  sure, 
though  your  lordship's  estates  are  at  the  other  end  of  the 
county,  yet  they  are  much  larger  than  his;  and  since 
your  lordship  has  a  troop  at  your  command,  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  I  would  not,  if  I  were  your  lordship,  suffer 
any  such  opposition  to  your  wishes. " 

Without  making  a  reply  to  this  harangue.  Lord  Uls- 
water stalked  haughtily  up  to  Mordaunt,  who  was  lean- 
ing against  the  wainscot,  and  conversing  with  those 
around  him. 

"  I  cannot  but  conceive,  Mr.  Mordaunt, "  said  lie,  with 
a  formal  bow,  "  that  I  have  been  misinformed  in  tlie 
intelligence   I   have  just  received." 

"  Lord  Ulswater  will,  perhaps,  inform  me  to  what 
intelligence  he  alludes." 

"  That  Mr.  Mordaunt,  the  representative  of  one  of  tlie 
noblest  families  in  England,  has  given  the  encouragement 
and  influence  of  his  name  and  rank  to  the  designs  of  a 
seditious  and  turbulent  mob. " 

Mordaunt  smiled  slightly,  as  he  replied,  "  Your  lord- 
ship rightly  believes  that  you  are  misinformed.  It  is 
precisely  because  I  would  not  have  the  mob  you  speak  of 
seditious  or  turbulent,   tliat  I  liave  made  it  my  request 


THE  DISOWNED.  233 

that  the  meeting  of  to-morrow  should  be  suffered  to  pass 
off  undisturbed. " 

"  Then,  sir, "  cried  Lord  Ulswater,  striking  the  table 
with  a  violence  which  caused  three  reverend  potentates 
of  the  province  to  start  back  in  dismay,  "  I  cannot  but 
consider  sucli  interference  on  your  part  to  the  last  degree 
impolitic  and  uncalled  for ;  these,  sir,  are  times  of  great 
danger  to  the  state,  and  in  which  it  is  indispensably 
requisite  to  support  and  strengthen  the  authority  of  the 
law." 

"  I  waive,  at  present, "  answered  Mordaunt,  "  all  reply 
to  language  neither  courteous  nor  appropriate.  I  doubt 
not  but  that  the  magistrates  will  decide  as  is  most  in 
accordance  with  the  spirit  of  that  law,  which  in  this,  and 
in  all  times,  should  be  supported. " 

"  Sir, "  said  Lord  Ulswater,  losing  his  temper  more  and 
more,  as  he  observed  that  the  bystanders,  whom  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  awe,  all  visibly  inclined  to  the  opin- 
ion of  Mordaimt, —  "  sir,  if  your  name  has  been  instrumen- 
tal in  producing  so  unfortunate  a  determination  on  the 
part  of  the  magistrates,  I  shall  hold  you  responsible  to 
the  government  for  those  results  which  ordinary  prudence 
may  calculate  upon." 

"  When  Lord  Ulswater, "  said  Mordaunt,  sternly, 
"  has  learned  what  is  due,  not  only  to  the  courtesies  of 
society,  but  to  those  legitimate  authorities  of  his  country, 
who  (he  ventures  to  suppose)  are  to  be  influenced  con- 
trary to  their  sense  of  duty  by  any  individual,  then  he 
may,  perhaps,  find  leisure  to  make  himself  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  nature  of  those  laws  which  he  now  so 
vehemently  upholds." 

"  Mr.  Mordaunt,  you  will  consider  yourself  answer- 
able to  me  for  those  words, "  said  Lord  Ulswater ,  with  a 
tone  of  voice  unnaturally  calm;  and  the  angry  flush  of 


234  THE   DISOWNED. 

his  countenance  gave  place  to  a  livid  paleness.     Then, 
turning  on   his  heel,    he   left  the  room. 

As  he  repaired  homeward,  he  saw  one  of  his  soldiers 
engaged  in  a  loud  and  angry  contest  with  a  man  in  the 
plain  garh  of  a  peaceful  citizen ;  a  third  person,  standing 
by,  appeared  ineffectually  endeavoring  to  pacify  the  dis- 
putants. A  rigid  disciplinarian,  Lord  Ulswater  allowed 
not  even  party  feeling,  roused  as  it  was,  to  conquer  pro- 
fessional habits.  He  called  off  the  soldier,  and  the  man 
Avith  whom  the  latter  had  been  engaged  immediately 
came  up  to  Lord  Ulswater  with  a  step  as  haughty  as  his 
own.  The  third  person,  who  had  attempted  the  peace- 
maker,   followed  him. 

"  I  presume,  sir, "  said  he,  "  that  you  are  an  officer  of 
this  man's  regiment." 

"  I  am  the  commanding  officer,  sir, "  said  Lord  Uls- 
water, very  little  relishmg  the  air  and  tone  of  the  per- 
son who  addressed  him. 

"  Then, "    answered   the   man    (who   was,   indeed,   no 

other  than  Wolfe,  who,  having  returned  to  W with 

Mordaunt,  had  already  succeeded  in  embroiling  himself 
in  a  dispute),  —  "  then,  sir,  I  look  to  you  for  his  punish- 
ment and  my  redress;  "  and  Wolfe  proceeded,  in  his 
own  exaggerated  language,  to  detail  a  very  reasonable 
cause  of  complaint.  The  fact  was,  that  Wolfe,  meeting 
one  of  his  compatriots,  and  conversing  with  him  some- 
Avhat  loudly,  had  uttered  some  Avords  which  attracted 
the  spleen  of  the  soldier  Avho  was  reeling  home,  very 
comfortably  intoxicated;  and  the  soldier  had,  most 
assuredly,  indulged  in  a  copious  abuse  of  the  d — d 
rebel  avIio  could  not  Avalk  the  streets  Avithout  chatter- 
ing sedition. 

Wolfe's  friend  confirmed  the  statement. 

The  trooper  attempted  to  justify  himself;  but  Lord 


THE    DISOWNED.  235 

Ulswater  saw  his  intoxication  in  an  instant,  and  secretly 
vexed  that  the  complaint  was  not  on  the  other  side, 
ordered  the  soldier  to  his  quarters,  with  a  brief  but  sure 
threat  of  punishment  on  the  morrow.  Not  willing,  how- 
ever, to  part  with  the  "  d — d  rebel  "  on  terms  so  flatter- 
ing to  the  latter,  Lord  Ulswater,  turning  to  Wolfe,  with 
a  severe  and  angry  air,  said,  — 

"  As  for  you,  fellow,  I  believe  the  Avhole  faidt  was 
on  your  side;  and  if  you  dare  again  give  vent  to  your 
disaffected  ravings,  I  shall  have  you  sent  to  prison,  to 
tame  your  rank  blood  upon  bread  and  water.  Begone, 
and  think  yourself  fortunate  to  escape  now !  " 

The  fierce  spirit  of  Wolfe  was  in  arms  on  the  instant ; 
and  his  reply,  in  subjectmg  him  to  Lord  L'lswater's 
threat,  might  at  least  have  prevented  his  enlightening 
the  public  on  the  morrow,  had  not  his  friend,  a  peaceable, 
prudent  man,  seized  him  by  the  arm,  and  whispered, 
"  What  are  you  about  1  Consider  for  what  you  are  here, 
—  another  word  may  rob  the  assembly  of  your  presence. 
A  man  bent  on  a  public  cause  must  not,  on  the  eve  of  its 
trial,  enlist  in  a  private  quarrel." 

"  True,  my  friend,  true, "  said  Wolfe,  swallowing  his 
rage,  and  eying  Lord  Ulswater's  retreating  figure  with 
a  menacing  look ;  "  but  the  time  may  yet  come  when  I 
shall  have  license  to  retaliate  on  the  upstart. " 

"  So  be  it, "  quoth  the  other,  —  "  he  is  our  bitterest 
enemy.     You  know,  perhaps,  that  he  is  Lord  Ulswater, 

of  the regiment  1     It   has   been    at   his  instigation 

that  the  magistrates  proposed  to  disturb  the  meeting. 
He  has  been  known  publicly  to  say  that  all  who  at- 
tended the  assembly  ought  to  be  given  up  to  the  swords 
of  his  troopers. " 

"  The  butchering  dastard !  —  to  dream  even  of  attack- 
ing unarmed  men ;  but  enough  of  him,  —  I  must  tarry 


236  THE   DISOWNED. 

yefc  in  the  street  to  hear  Avhat  success  our  intercessor 
has  obtained."  And  as  Wolfe  passed  the  house  in 
Avhich  the  magisterial  conclave  sat,  Mordaunt  came  out 
and  accosted  him. 

"  You  have  sworn  to  me  that  your  purpose  is  peace- 
able, "  said  Mordaunt. 

"  Unquestionably, "  answered  Wolfe. 

"  And  you  will  pledge  yourself  that  no  disturbance, 
that  can  either  be  effected,  or  counteracted  by  yourself 
and  friends,  shall  take  place  ?  " 

"I  will." 

"  Enough !  "  ansAvered  Mordaunt,  "  Remember,  that 
if  you  commit  the  least  act  that  can  be  thought  dan- 
gerous, I  may  not  be  able  to  preserve  you  from  the 
military.     As  it  is,  your  meeting  will  be  unopposed. " 

Contrary  to  Lord  Ulswater's  prediction,  the  meeting 
went  off  as  quietly  as  an  elderly  maiden's  tea-party. 
The  speakers,  even  Wolfe,  not  only  took  especial  pains 
to  recommend  order  and  peace,  but  avoided,  for  the 
most  part,  all  inflammatory  enlargement  upon  the  griev- 
ances of  which  they  complained.  And  the  sage  fore- 
boders  of  evil,  who  had  locked  up  their  silver  spoons, 
and  shaken  their  heads  very  wisely  for  the  last  week, 
had  the  agreeable  mortification  of  observing  rather  an 
appearance  of  good  humor  upon  the  countenances  of 
the  multitude,  tlian  that  ferocious  determination  against 
the  lives  and  limbs  of  the  well-affected  which  they  had 
so  sorrowfully  anticipated. 

As  Mordaunt  (who  had  been  present  during  the 
whole  time  of  the  meeting)  mounted  his  horse,  and 
quitted  the  ground,  Lord  Ulswater,  having  just  left 
his  quarters,  where  he  had  been  all  day  in  expectation 
of  some  violent  act  of  the  orators  or  the  mob  demand- 
ing his  military   services,    caught   sight   of  him,    with  a 


THE    DISOWNED.  237 

sudden  recollection  of  his  own  passionate  threat.  There 
had  been  nothing  in  Mordaunt's  words  which  would, 
in  our  times,  have  justified  a  challenge ;  but  in  that 
day,  duels  were  fought  upon  the  slightest  provocation. 
Lord  Ulswater  therefore  rode  up  at  once  to  a  gentle- 
man with  whom  he  had  some  intimate  acquaintance, 
and,  briefly  stating  that  he  had  been  insulted  both  as 
an  officer  and  gentleman  by  Mr.  Mordaunt,  requested 
his  friend  to  call  upon  that  gentleman,  and  demand 
satisfaction. 

"  To-morrow, "  said  Lord  Ulswater,  "  I  have  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  unavoidably  engaged.  The  next  day  you 
can  appoint  place  and  time  of  meeting." 

"  I  must  first  see  the  gentleman  to  whom  Mr.  Mor- 
daunt may  refer  me, "  said  the  friend,  prudently ;  "  and 
perhaps  your  honor  may  be  satisfied  without  any  hostile 
meeting  at  all. " 

"I  think  not, "  said  Lord  Ulswater,  carelessly,  as  he 
rode  away ;  "  for  Mr,  Mordaunt  is  a  gentleman,  and 
gentlemen  never  apologize." 

Wolfe  was  standing  unobserved  near  Lord  Ulswater 
while  the  latter  thus  instructed  his  proposed  second. 
"  Man  of  blood, "  muttered  the  republican,  "with  homi- 
cide thy  code  of  honor,  and  massacre  thine  interpreta- 
tion of  law,  by  violence  wouldst  thou  rule,  and  by 
violence  mayst  thou  perish !  " 


238  THE   DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER   LXXVII. 

Jam  te  preniet  nox,  fabulaeque  Manes 
Et  donius  exilis  Plutouia.i 

HOR. 

The  morning  was  dull  and  heavy  as  Lord  Ulswater 
mounted  his  horse,  and,  unattended,  took  his  way  towards 
Westborough  Park.  His  manner  was  unusually  thought- 
ful and  absent;  perhaps  two  affairs  upon  his  hands, 
either  of  which  seemed  likely  to  end  in  bloodshed,  were 
suthcient  to  bring  reflection  even  to  the  mind  of  a  cav- 
alry officer. 

He  had  scarcely  got  out  of  the  town  before  he  was 
overtaken  by  our  worthy  friend  Mr.  Glumford.  As  he 
had  been  a  firm  ally  of  Lord  Ulswater  in  the  contest 
respecting  the  meeting,  so,  when  he  joined  and  saluted 
tliat  nobleman.  Lord  Ulswater,  mindful  of  past  services, 
returned  his  greeting  with  an  air  rather  of  condescension 
than  hauteur.  To  say  truth,  his  lordship  was  never 
very  fond  of  utter  loneliness,  and  the  respectful  bearing 
of  Glumford,  joined  to  that  mutual  congeniality  which 
sympathy  in  political  views  always  occasions,  made  him 
more  pleased  with  the  society  than  shocked  with  the  in- 
trusion of  the  squire :  so  that  when  Glumford  said,  "  If 
your  lordship's  way  lies  along  this  road  for  the  next  five 
or  six  miles,  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  tlie  honor  of 
accompanying  you, "  Lord  Ulswater  graciously  signified 
his  consent  to  the   proposal,  and  carelessly    mentioning 

1  This  very  hour  Death  shall  overcome  thee,  aud  the  faLled 
Maues  and  the  shadowy  I'lutonian  realms  receive  thee. 


THE   DISOWNED.  239 

that  he  "was  going  to  Westborongh  Park,  slid  into  that 
conversation  with  his  new  companion  which  the  meeting 
and  its  actors  afforded. 

Turn  we  for  an  instant  to  Clarence.  At  the  appointed 
hour  he  had  arrived  at  Westborough  Park,  and  bidding 
his  companion,  the  trusty  Wardour,  remain  within  the 
chaise  which  had  conveyed  them,  he  was  ushered,  with 
a  tremblmg  heart,  but  a  mien  erect  and  self-composed, 
into  Lady  Westborough's  presence:  the  marchioness 
was  alone. 

"  I  am  sensible,  sir, "  said  she,  with  a  little  embarrass- 
ment, "  that  it  is  not  exactly  becoming  to  my  station  and 
circumstances  to  suffer  a  meeting  of  the  present  nature 
between  Lord  Ulswater  and  yourself  to  be  held  within 
this  house ;  but  I  could  not  resist  the  request  of  Lord 
Ulswater,  conscious  from  his  character  that  it  could  con- 
tain nothing  detrimental  to  the  —  to  the  consideration 
and  delicacy  due  to  Lady  Flora  Ardenne." 

Clarence  bowed.  "  So  far  as  I  am  concerned, "  said 
he,  ''  I  feel  confident  that  Lady  Westborough  will  not 
repent  of  her  condescension." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  It  is  singular, "  said  Lady  Westborough,  looking  to 
the  clock  upon  an  opposite  table,  "  that  Lord  UlsAvater 
is  not  yet  arrived." 

"  It  is, "  said  Clarence,  scarcely  conscious  of  his  words, 
and  wondering  whether  Lady  Flora  Avould  deign  to 
appear. 

Another  pause.  Lady  Westborough  felt  the  awkward- 
ness of  her  situation. 

Clarence  made  an  effort  to  recover  himself. 

"  1  do  not  see, "  said  he,  "  the  necessity  of  delaying  the 
explanation  I  have  to  offer  to  your  ladyship  till  my  Lord 
Ulswater    deems    it  suitable    to  appear.      Allow   me    at 


240  THE   DISOWNED. 

once  to  enter  upon  a  history,  told  in  few  words,  and 
easily  proved." 

"  Stay, "  said  Lady  Westborough,  struggling  Avith  her 
curiosity ;  "  it  is  due  to  one  who  has  stood  in  so  peculiar 
a  situation  in  our  family  to  wait  yet  a  little  longer  for 
his  coming.  We  Avill  tlaerefore,  till  the  hour  is  com- 
pleted, postpone  the  object  of  our  meeting." 

Clarence  again  bowed  and  was  silent.  Another  and  a 
longer  pause  ensued ;  it  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  the 
clock  striking,  —  the  hour  was  completed. 

"  Now, "  —  began  Clarence,  when  he  was  interrupted 
by  a  sudden  and  violent  commotion  in  the  hall.  Above 
all  was  heard  a  loud  and  piercing  cry,  in  which  Clarence 
recognized  the  voice  of  the  old  steward.  He  rose  ab- 
ruptly, and  stood  motionless  and  aghast;  his  eyes  met 
those  of  Lady  Westborough,  who,  pale  and  agitated,  lost 
for  the  moment  all  her  habitual  self-command.  The 
sound  increased:  Clarence  rushed  from  the  room  into 
the  hall;  the  open  door  of  the  apartment  revealed  to 
Lady  Westborough,  as  to  him,  a  sight  which  allowed 
her  no  further  time  for  hesitation.  She  hurried  after 
Clarence  into  the  hall,  gave  one  look,  uttered  one  shriek 
of  horror,  and  fainted. 


THE   DISOWNED.  241 


CHAPTER   LXXVIII. 

Iden.  —  But  thou  wilt  brave  me  in  these  saucy  terms. 
Cade.  —  Brave   thee !    ay,  by   the   best   blood   that   ever   was 
broached,  and  beard  thee  too. 

Shakespeare. 

"  You  see,  my  lord, "  said  Mr.  Glumford  to  Lord  Uls- 
water,  as  they  rode  slowly  on,  "  that  as  long  as  those 
rebellious  scoundrels  are  indulged  in  their  spoutings  and 
meetings,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  that  —  that  there  will 
be  no  bearing  them. " 

"  Very  judiciously  remarked,  sir, "  replied  Lord  Uls- 
water.  "  I  wish  all  gentlemen  of  birth  and  considera- 
tion viewed  the  question  in  the  same  calm,  dispassionate, 
and  profound  light  that  you  do.  Would  to  Heaven  it 
were  left  to  me  to  clear  the  country  of  those  mutinous 
and  dangerous  rascals,  —  I  would  make  speedy  and  sure 
work  of  it. " 

"  I  am  certain  you  would,  my  lord,  —  I  am  certain  you 
would.  It  is  a  thousand  pities  that  pompous  fellow 
Mordaunt  interfered  yesterday  with  his  moderation  and 
policy  and  all  that  sort  of  thing:  so  foolish,  you  know, 
my  lord,  —  mere  theory  and  romance  and  that  sort  of 
thing;  we  should  have  had  it  all  our  own  way,  if  he 
had  not." 

Lord  Ulswater  played  with  his  riding-whip,  but  did 
not  reply.     Mr.  Glumford  continued :  — 

"  Pray,  my  lord,  did  your  lordship  see  what  an  ugly, 
ill-dressed  set  of  dogs  those  meeting ers  were, —  that 
Wolfe,  above   all  1     Oh,   he 's  a   horrid-looking   fellow ! 

VOL.  II. —  16 


242  THE    DISOWNED. 

By  the  by,  he  left  the  town  this  very  morning;  I  saw 
him  take  leave  of  his  friends  in  the  street  just  before  I 
set  out.  He  is  going  to  some  other  meeting, —  on  foot 
too.  Only  think  of  the  folly  of  talking  about  the 
policy  and  prudence  and  humanity,  and  that  sort  of 
thing,  of  sparing  such  a  pitiful  poor  fellow  as  that: 
can't  afford  a  chaise,  or  a  stage-coach  even,  my  lord, — 
positively   can't. " 

"  You  see  the  matter  exactly  in  its  true  light,  Mr. 
Glumford, "  said  his  lordship,  patting  his  fine  horse, 
which  was  somewhat  impatient  of  the  slow  pace  of  its 
companion. 

"  A  very  beautiful  animal  of  your  lordship's, "  said 
Mr.  Glumford,  spurring  his  own  horse , —  a  heavy,  dull 
quadruped,  with  an  obstinate  ill-set  tail,  a  low  shoulder, 
and  a  Roman  nose.  "  I  am  very  partial  to  horses  my- 
self, and  love   a  fine  horse  as  well  as  anybody." 

Lord  Ulswater  cast  a  glance  at  his  companion's  steed, 
and  seeing  nothing  in  its  qualities  to  justify  this  assertion 
of  attachment  to  hne  horses,  was  silent;  Lord  Ulswater 
never  flattered  even  his  mistress,  much  less  Mr. 
Glumford. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  my  lord, "  continued  ISIr.  Glumford, 
"what  a  bargain  this  horse  was;"  and  the  squire  pro- 
ceeded, much  to  Lord  Ulswater's  discontent,  to  detail  the 
history  of  his  craft  in  making  the  said  bargam. 

The  riders  were  now  entering  a  part  of  the  road,  a 
little  more  than  two  miles  from  Wostborough  Park,  in 
which  the  features  of  the  neighboring  country  took  a 
bolder  and  ruder  aspect  than  they  had  hitherto  worn. 
On  one  side  of  the  road  the  view  opened  upon  a  descent 
of  considerable  depth,  and  the  dull  sun  looked  drearily 
over  a  valley  in  which  large  fallow  fields,  a  distant  and 
solitary    spire,  and   a   few    stinted   and  witiiering   trees 


THE   DISOWNED.  243 

formed  the  chief  characteristics.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  road  a  narrow  footpath  was  separated  from  the  high- 
way by  occasional  posts ;  and  on  this  path  Lord  Ulswater 
(how  the  minute  and  daily  occurrences  of  life  show  the 
grand  pervading  principles  of  character!)  was,  at  the 
time  we  refer  to,  riding,  in  preference  to  the  established 
thoroughfare  for  equestrian  and  aurigal  travellers.  The 
side  of  this  path  farthest  from  the  road  was  bordered  by 
a  steep  declivity  of  stony  and  gravelly  earth,  Avhich 
almost  deserved  the  dignified  appellation  of  a  precipice ; 
and  it  was  with  no  small  exertion  of  dexterous  horseman- 
ship that  Lord  Ulswater  kept  his  spirited  and  suscepti- 
ble steed  upon  the  narrow  and  somewhat  perilous  path, 
in  spite  of  its  frequent  starts  at  the  rugged  descent 
below. 

"  I  think,  my  lord,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so, "  said 
Mr.  Glumford,  having  just  finished  the  narration  of  his 
bargain,  "  that  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  take  the 
highroad  just  at  present ;  for  the  descent  from  the  foot- 
path is  steep  and  abrupt,  and  deuced  crumbling,  so  that 
if  your  lordship's  horse  shied  or  took  a  wrong  step,  it 
might  be  attended  with  unpleasant  consequences, —  a 
fall,  or  that  sort  of  thing. " 

"  You  are  very  good,  sir, "  said  Lord  Ulswater,  who, 
like  most  proud  people,  conceived  advice  an  insult ;  "  but 
I  imagine  myself  capable  of  guiding  my  horse,  at  least 
•upon  a  road  so  excellent  as  this." 

"  Certainly,  my  lord,  certainly ;  I  beg  yo\ir  pardon : 
but  —  bless  me,  who  is  that  tall  fellow  in  black,  talking 
to  himself  yonder,  my  lord?  The  turn  of  the  road 
hides  him  from  7jou  just  at  present;  but  I  see  him  well. 
Ha,  ha!  what  gestures  he  uses!  I  daresay  he  is  one  of 
the  petitioners,  and  —  yes,  my  lord,  by  Jupiter,  it  is 
Wolfe  himself!     You  had  better  (excuse  me,  my  lord) 


244  THE   DISOWNED. 

come  down  from  the  footpatli :  it  is  not  ■wide  enough  for 
two  people,  —  and  Wolfe,  I  daresay,  a  d — d  rascal, 
would  not  get  out  of  the  way  for  the  devil  liimself! 
He  's  a  nasty,  black,  fierce-looking  fellow ;  I  would  not 
for  something  meet  him  in  a  dark  night,  or  that  sort  of 
thing!" 

"  I  do  not  exactly  understand,  Mr.  Glumford, "  re- 
ivu'ned  Lord  Ulswater,  with  a  supercilious  glance  at 
that  gentleman,  "  what  peculiarities  of  temper  you  are 
pleased  to  impute  to  me,  or  from  what  you  deduce  the 
supposition  that  I  shall  move  out  of  my  Avay  for  a 
person  like  Mr.  Woolt,  or  Wolfe,  or  whatever  be  his 
name. " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,  I  am  sure, "  answered 
Glumford :  "  of  course  your  lordship  knows  best ;  and  if 
the  rogue  is  impertinent,  why,  I  'm  a  magistrate,  and  will 
commit  him  ;  though  to  be  sure, "  continued  our  righteous 
Daniel,  in  a  lower  key,  "  he  has  a  right  to  walk  upon 
the  footpath  without  being  ridden  over,  or  that  sort  of 
thing. " 

The  equestrians  were  now  very  near  Wolfe,  who, 
turning  hastily  round,  perceived,  and  immediately  recog- 
nized Lord  Ulswater.  "  Ah,  ha, "  muttered  he  to  him- 
self, "  here  comes  the  insolent  thirster  for  blood ,  grudging 
us,  seemingly,  even  the  meagre  comfort  of  the  path 
which  his  horse's  hoofs  are  breaking  up,  —  yet,  thank 
Heaven,"  added  the  republican,  looking  with  a  stern 
satisfaction  at  the  narrowness  of  the  footing,  "  he  cannot 
very  Avell  pass  me,  and  the  free  lion  does  not  move  out 
of  his  way  for  such  pampered  kine  as  those  to  which  this 
creature  belongs. " 

Actuated  by  this  thought,  Wolfe  almost  insensibly 
moved  entirely  into  the  middle  of  the  path,  so  that  what 
with  the  posts  on  one  side,   and  the  abrupt  and  unde- 


THE   DISOWNED.  245 

fended  precipice,  if  we  may  so  call  it,  on  the  other,  it 
was  quite  impossible  for  any  horseman  to  pass  the  repub- 
lican, unless  over  his  body. 

Lord  Ulswater  marked  the  motion,  and  did  not  want 
penetration  to  perceive  the  cause.  Glad  of  an  opportu- 
nity to  wreak  some  portion  of  his  irritation  against  a 
member  of  a  body  so  olfensive  to  his  mind,  and  which 
had  the  day  before  obtained  a  sort  of  triumph  over  his 
exertions  against  them,  and  rendered  obstinate  in  his  in- 
tention by  the  pique  he  had  felt  at  Glumford's  caution, 
Lord  Ulswater,  tightening  his  rein,  and  humming,  with 
apparent  indifference,  a  popular  tune,  continued  his 
progress  till  he  was  within  a  foot  of  the  republican. 
Then,  checking  his  horse  for  a  moment,  he  called,  in  a 
tone  of  quiet  arrogance,  to  Wolfe  to  withdraw  himself  on 
one  side  till  he  had  passed. 

The  fierce  blood  of  the  republican,  which  the  least 
breath  of  oppression  sufficed  to  kindle,  and  which  yet 
boiled  with  the  remembrance  of  Lord  Ulswater's  threat 
to  him  two  nights  before,  was  on  tire  at  this  command. 
He  stopped  short,  and,  turning  half  round,  stood  erect  m 
the  strength  and  power  of  his  singularly  toll  and  not 
ungraceful  form.  "  Poor  and  proud  fool, "  said  he,  with 
a  voice  of  the  most  biting  scorn,  and  fixing  an  eye 
eloquent  of  ire  and  menaced  danger  upon  the  calmly  con- 
temptuous countenance  of  the  patrician,  — "  poor  and 
proud  fool,  do  you  think  that  your  privileges  have 
already  reached  so  pleasant  a  pitch  that  you  may  ride 
over  men  like  dust?  Off,  fool!  the  basest  peasant  in 
England,  degraded  as  he  is,  would  resist,  while  he  ridi- 
culed your  arrogance. " 

Without  deigning  any  reply,  Lord  Ulswater  spurred 
his  horse  J  the  spirited  animal  bounded  forward,  almost 


246  THE    DISOWxNED. 

on  the  very  person  of  the  oljstructer  of  tlie  patli ;  with 
uncommon  agility  Wolfe  drew  aside  from  the  danger, 
seized,  with  a  powerful  grasp,  the  bridle,  and  abruptly 
arresting  the  horse,  backed  it  fearfully  towards  the  de- 
scent. Enraged  beyond  all  presence  of  mind,  the  fated 
nobleman,  raising  his  whip,  struck  violently  at  the  re- 
publican. The  latter,  as  he  felt  the  blow,  uttered  a 
single  shout  of  such  ferocity  that  it  curdled  the  timorous 
blood  of  Glumford,  and  witli  a  giant  and  iron  hand  he 
backed  the  horse  several  paces  down  the  precipice.  The 
treacherous  earth  crumbled  beneath  the  weight,  and 
Lord  Ulswater,  spurring  his  steed  violently  at  tlie  same 
instant  that  Wolfe  so  sharply  and  strongly  curbed  it,  the 
affrighted  animal  reared  violently,  forced  the  rein  from 
Wolfe,  stood  erect  for  a  moment  of  horror  to  the  specta- 
tor, and  then,  as  its  footing  and  balance  alike  failed  it, 
fell  backAvard,  and  rolled  over  and  over  its  unfortunate 
and  helpless  rider. 

"Good  Heavens!"  cried  Glumford,  who  had  sat 
quietly  upon  his  dozing  horse,  watching  the  result  of 
the  dispute,  —  "  what  have  you  done  1  You  have  killed 
his  lordship,  —  positively  killed  him,  and  his  horse  too, 
I  daresay.  You  shall  be  hanged  for  this,  sir,  as  sure  as 
I  am  a  magistrate  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

Unlieeding  this  denunciation,  Wolfe  had  made  to  the 
spot  where  rider  and  horse  lay  blent  together  at  the  foot 
of  the  descent,  and  assisting  the  latter  to  rise,  bent  down 
to  examine  the  real  effect  of  his  violence.  "  ]\r('t]iinks, " 
said  he,  as  he  looked  upon  tlie  hueless,  but  still  defying, 
features  of  the  horseman,  —  "  methinks  I  have  seen  that 
face  years  before,  —  but  where  1  —  perhaps  my  dreams 
have  foretold  me  this." 

Lord    Ulswater  was  utterly  senseless;  and  as  Wolfe 


THE   DISOWNED.  247 

raised  him,  he  saw  that  the  right  side  of  the  head  was 
covered  with  blood,  and  that  one  arm  seemed  crushed 
and  broken.  Meanwhile  a  carriage  had  appeared,  wad 
hailed  by  Glumford,  stopped;  and,  on  being  informed 
of  the  circumstance,  and  the  rank  of  the  suiferer,  the 
traveller,  a  single  gentleman,  descended,  assisted  to  raise 
the  unhappy  nobleman,  placed  him  in  the  carriage,  and 
obeying  Glumford's  instructions,  proceeded  slowly  to 
"Westborough  Park. 

"  But  the  ruffian,  the  rebel,  the  murderer !  "  said  Mr. 
Glumford,  both  querulously  and  inquiringly,  looking 
towards  Wolfe,  Avho,  Avithout  having  attempted  to  assist 
his  victim,  stood  aloof,  with  arms  folded,  and  an  expres- 
sion of  sated  ferocity  upon  his  speaking  features. 

"  Oh,  as  to  him, "  quoth  the  traveller,  stepping  into 
his  carriage,  in  order  to  support  the  mangled  man,  — 
"  you,  sir,  and  my  valet,  can  bring  him  along  with  you, 
or  take  him  to  the  next  town,  or  do,  in  short,  with  him 
just  as  you  please,  only  be  sure  he  does  not  escape,  — • 
drive  on,  post-boy,  very  gently."  And  poor  Mr.  Glum- 
ford found  the  muscular  form  of  the  stern  Wolfe  con- 
signed to  the  sole  care  of  himself  and  a  very  diminutive 
man  in  pea-green  silk  stockings,  who,  however  excel- 
lently well  he  might  perform  the  office  of  valet,  was 
certainly  by  no  means  calculated  in  physical  powers  for 
the  detention  of  a  criminal. 

Wolfe  saved  the  pair  a  world  of  trouble  and  anxiety. 

"  Sir, "  said  he,  gravely  turning  to  Glumford,  "  you 
beheld  the  aflFray,  and,  whatever  its  consequences,  will 
do  me  the  common  justice  of  witnessing  as  to  the  fact  of 
the  first  aggressor:  it  will,  however,  be  satisfactory  to 
both  of  us  to  seize  the  earliest  opportunity  of  putting  the 
matter  upon  a  legal  footing,  and  I  shall,   therefore,    re- 


248  THE   DISOWNED. 

turn  to  "VV ,  to  wliich   town  you  -will  doubtless  ac- 
company me." 

"  With  all  my  heart !  "  cried  Mr.  Glumford,  feeling  as 
if  a  mountain  of  responsibility  were  taken  from  his 
breast ;  "  and  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  may  be  transported 
instead  of  hanged. " 


THE   DISOWNED.  249 


CHAPTEK  LXXIX. 

But  gasping  heaved  the  breath  tliat  Lara  drew, 
And  dull  the  film  along  his  dim  eye  grew. 

Byron. 

The  light  broke  partially  through  the  half-closed  shut- 
ters of  the  room  in  which  lay  Lord  Ulswater,  —  who, 
awakened  to  sense  and  pain  by  the  motion  of  the  car- 
riage, had  now  relapsed  into  insensibility.  By  the  side 
of  the  sofa  on  which  he  was  laid,  knelt  Clarence,  bath- 
ing one  hand  with  tears  violent  and  fast;  on  the  op- 
posite side  leaned  over,  with  bald  front,  and  an  expression 
of  mingled  fear  and  sorrow  upon  his  intent  countenance, 
the  old  steward ;  while,  at  a  little  distance.  Lord  West- 
borough,  who  had  been  wheeled  into  the  room,  sat 
mute  in  his  chair,  aghast  with  bewilderment  and  horror, 
and  counting  every  moment  to  the  arrival  of  the  surgeon, 
who  had  been  sent  for.  The  stranger  to  whom  the  car- 
riage belonged  stood  by  the  window,  detailing,  in  a  low 
voice,  to  the  chaplain  of  the  house,  what  particulars  of 
the  occurrence  he  was  acquainted  with ;  while  the  young- 
est scion  of  the  family,  a  boy  of  about  ten  years,  and 
who,  in  the  general  confusion,  had  thrust  himself  un- 
noticed into  the  room,  stood  close  to  the  pair,  with  open 
mouth  and  thirsting  ears,  and  a  face  on  which  childish 
interest  at  a  fearful  tale  Avas  strongly  blent  with  the  more 
absorbed  feelmg  of  terror  at  the  truth. 

Slowly  Lord  Ulswater  opened  his  eyes,  —  they  rested 
upon  Clarence. 

"  My  brother  —  my  brother !  "  cried  Clarence,  in  a 
voice  of  powerful  anguish ;  "  is  it  thus  —  thus  that  you 


250  THE  DISOWNED. 

have  come  hitlier  to  —  "  He  stopped  in  the  gushing 
fubiess  of  his  heart.  Extricating  from  Clarence  the 
only  hand  he  was  able  to  use,  Lord  Ulswater  raised  it 
to  his  brow,  as  if  in  the  effort  to  clear  remembrance; 
and  then,  turning  to  Wardour,  seemed  to  ask  the  truth 
of  Clarence's  claim,  —  at  least  so  the  old  man  interpreted 
the  meaning  of  his  eye,  and  tlie  faint  and  scarce  intel- 
ligible words  which  broke  from  his  lips. 

"  It  is,  it  is,  my  honored  lord, "  cried  he,  struggling 
with  his  emotion,  — "  it  is  your  brother,  your  lost 
brother,  Clinton  L'Estrange."  And  as  he  said  these 
words,  Clarence  felt  the  damp  chill  hand  of  his  brother 
press  his  own,  and  knew  by  that  pressure  and  the  smile 
—  kind,  though  brief  from  exceeding  pain  —  with  which 
the  ill-fated  nobleman  looked  upon  him,  that  the  claim 
long  unknown  was  at  last  acknowledged,  and  the  ties 
long  broken  united,  though  in  death. 

The  surgeon  arrived;  the  room  was  cleared  of  all 
but  Clarence,  —  the  first  examination  w^as  sufficient. 
Unaware  of  Clarence's  close  relationship  to  the  sufierer, 
the  surgeon  took  him  aside :  "  A  very  painful  opera- 
tion, "  said  he,  "  might  be  performed,  but  it  Avould  only 
torture  in  vain  the  last  moments  of  the  patient;  no 
human  skill  can  save,  or  even  protract  his  life. " 

The  doomed  man,  Avho,  though  in  great  pain,  was 
still  sensible,  stirred.  His  brother  flew  towards  him. 
"  Flora,"  he  murmured,  "  let  me  see  her,  I  implore." 

Curbing,  as  much  as  he  was  able,  his  emotion,  and 
conquering  his  reluctance  to  leave  the  sufferer  even  for 
a  moment,  Clarence  flew  in  search  of  Lady  Flora.  He 
found  her :  in  rapid  and  hasty  words  he  signified  the  wish 
of  the  dying  man,  and  hurried  her,  confused,  trembling, 
and  scarce  conscious  of  the  melancholy  scene  she  was 
about  to  witness,  to  the  side  of  her  affianced  bridegroom. 


THE   PISOAVNED.  251 

I  have  been  by  the  deathbeds  of  many  men,  and  I 
have  noted  that  shortly  before  death,  as  the  frame 
grows  weaker  and  weaker,  the  fiercer  passions  yield  to 
those  feelings  better  harmonizing  with  the  awfulness 
of  the  hour.  Thoughts  soft  and  tender,  which  seemed 
little  to  belong  to  the  character  in  the  health  and  vigor 
of  former  years,  obtain  then  an  empire,  —  brief,  indeed, 
but  utter  for  the  time  they  last;  and  this  is  the  more 
impressive,  because  (as  in  the  present  instance  I  shall 
have  occasion  to  portray)  in  the  moments  which  succeed 
and  make  the  very  latest  of  life,  the  rulmg  passion, 
suppressed  for  an  interval  by  such  gentler  feelings, 
sometimes  agam  returns  to  take  its  final  triumph  over 
that  frail  clay  which,  through  existence,  it  has  swayed, 
agitated,  and  moulded  like  Avax  unto  its  will. 

"When  Lord  Ulswater  saw  Flora  approach  and  bend 
weepingly  over  him,  a  momentary  softness  stole  over 
his  face.  Taking  her  hand,  he  extended  it  towards  Clar- 
ence ;  and,  turning  to  the  latter,  faltered  out,  "  Let 
this  —  my  —  brother  —  atone  —  for  —  "  apparently  lui- 
able  to  finish  the  sentence,  he  then  relaxed  his  hold 
and  sunk  upon  the  pillow:  and  so  still,  so  apparently 
breathless,  did  he  remain  for  several  minutes,  that  they 
thought  the  latest  agony  was  over. 

As,  yielding  to  this  impression,  Clarence  was  about 
to  withdraw  the  scarce  conscious  Flora  from  the  cham- 
ber, words,  less  tremulous  and  indistinct  than  aught 
which  he  had  yet  uttered,  broke  from  Lord  Ulswater 's 
lips.  Clarence  hastened  to  him,  and,  bending  over 
his  countenance,  saw  that,  even  through  the  rapid 
changes  and  shades  of  death,  it  darkened  with  the 
peculiar  characteristics  of  the  unreleased  soul  within : 
the  brow  was  knit  into  more  than  its  wonted  sternness 
and  pride ;  and  in  the  eye,  which  glared  upon  the  oppo- 


252  THE    DISOWNED. 

site  wall,  the  liglit  of  the  waning  life  l)rolve  into  a  mo- 
mentary blaze,  —  that  flash,  so  rapid  and  evanescent, 
before  the  air  drinks  in  the  last  spark  of  the  being  it 
has  animated,  and  night  —  the  starless  and  eternal  —  falls 
over  the  extinguished  lamp !  The  hand  of  the  right  arm 
(which  was  that  unshattered  by  the  fall)  M'as  clenched 
and  raised;  but,  when  the  words  which  came  upon 
Clarence's  ear  had  ceased,  it  fell  heavily  by  his  side, 
like  a  clod  of  that  clay  which  it  had  then  become. 
In  those  words,  it  seemed  as  if,  in  the  confused  deli- 
rium of  passing  existence,  the  brave  soldier  mingled 
some  dim  and  bewildered  recollection  of  former  battles 
with  that  of  his  last  most  fatal,  though  most  ignoble 
strife. 

"  Down,  down  with  them, "  he  muttered  between  his 
teeth,  though  in  a  tone  startlingiy  deep  and  audible,  — 
"  do^vn  with  them.  No  quarter  to  the  infidels,  —  strike 
for  England  and  Effingham.  Ha !  —  who  strives  for 
flight  there !  —  kill  him :  no  mercy,  I  say,  —  none !  — 
there  —  there ,  I  have  despatched  him,  —  ha !  ha !  What, 
still  alive  1  —  off,  slave,  off"  !  Oh,  slain  —  slain  in  a 
ditch,  by  a  base-born  hind ;  oh  —  bitter  —  bitter  — 
bitter!"  And  with  these  words,  of  which  the  last, 
from  their  piercing  anguish  and  keen  despair,  made  a 
dread  contrast  with  the  fire  and  defiance  of  the  first,  tin 
jaw  fell,  the  flashing  and  fierce  eye  glazed  and  e-^  and 
all  of  the  haughty  and  bold  patrician  which  the  earth 
retained  was  —  dust ! 


THE   DISOWNED.  25t 


CHAPTER  LXXX. 

H  n'est  jamais  permis  de  deteriorer  une  ame  humaine  pour  I'avaii- 
tage  des  autres,  iii  de  faire  un  scelerat  pour  le  service  des  hon- 
netes  gens.i  —  Rousseau. 

As  the  reader  approaches  the  termination  of  this  narra- 
tive, and  looks  back  upon  the  many  scenes  he  has  passed, 
perhaps,  in  the  mimic  representation  of  human  life,  he 
may  find  no  unfaithful  resemblance  to  the  true. 

As,  amongst  the  crowd  of  characters  jostled  against 
each  other  in  their  course,  some  drop  off  at  the  first,  the 
second,  or  the  third  stage,  and  leave  a  few  only  continu- 
ing to  the  last,  while  Fate  chooses  her  agents  and  survi- 
vors among  those  whom  the  bystander,  perchance,  least 
noticed  as  the  objects  of  her  selection,  —  and  they  who, 
haply,  seemed  to  him  at  first  among  the  most  conspicuous 
as  characters,  sink,  some  abruptly,  some  gradually 
into  actors  of  the  least  importance  in  events ;  as  the 
reader  notes  the  same  passion,  in  different  strata,  pro- 
ducing the  most  opposite  qualities,  and  gathers  from  that 
notice  some  estimate  of  the  vast  perplexity  in  the  code 
of  morals,  deemed  by  the  shallow  so  plain  a  science, 
when  he  finds  that  a  similar  and  single  feeling  will  pro- 
duce both  the  virtue  we  love  and  the  vice  we  detest,  the 
magnanimity  we  admire  and  the  meanness  we  despise ; 
as  the  feeble  hands  of  the  author  force  into  contrast 
ignorance  and  wisdom,  the  affectation  of  philosophy  and 
its  true  essence,  coarseness  and  refinement,  the  lowest 

^  It  is  not  permitted  us  to  degrade  one  single  soul  for  the  sake 
of  conferring  advantage  ou  others,  nor  to  make  a  rogue  for  the 
good  of  the  honest. 


254  THE   DISOWNED. 

vulgarity  of  sentiment  witli  an  exaltation  of  ftclinfr 
approaching  to  morbidity,  the  reality  of  virtue  with  llie 
counterfeit,  the  glory  of  the  divinity  with  the  hideous- 
ness  of  the  idol,  sorrow  and  eager  joy,  marriage  and 
death,  tears,  and  their  young  successors,  smiles;  as  ail, 
blent  together,  these  varieties  of  life  form  a  single  yet 
many-colored  web,  leaving  us  to  doubt  whether,  in  for- 
tune, the  bright  hue  or  the  dark,  in  character,  the  base 
material  or  the  rich,  predominate, —  the  workman  of  the 
web  could  almost  reconcile  himself  to  his  glaring  and 
great  deficiency  in  art,  by  the  fond  persuasion  that  he 
has,  at  least  in  his  choice  of  tint  and  texture,  caught 
something  of  the  likeness  of  nature:  but  he  knows,  to 
the  abasement  of  his  vanity,  that  these  enumerated  par- 
ticulars of  resemblance  to  life  are  common  to  all,  even 
to  the  most  unskilful  of  his  brethren ;  and  it  is  not  the 
mere  act  of  copying  a  true  original,  but  the  rare  circum- 
stance of  force  and  accuracy  in  the  copy,  which  can  alone 
constitute  a  just  pretension  to  merit,  or  flatter  the  artist 
with  the  hope  of  a  moderate  success. 

The  news  of  Lord  Ulswater's  untimely  death  soon 
spread  around  the  neighborhood,  and  was  conveyed  to 
Mordaunt  by  the  very  gentleman  whom  that  nobleman  had 
charged  with  his  hostile  message.  Algernon  repaired 
at  once  to  W ,  to  gather  from  Wolfe  some  less  ex- 
aggerated account  of  the  atiray  than  that  which  the  many 
tongues  of  rumor  had  brought  to  him. 

It  was  no  difficult  matter  to  see  the  precise  share  of 
blame  to  be  attaclied  to  Wolfe ;  and  notwithstanding 
the  biassed  account  of  (Jlumford,  and  the  strong  spirit  of 
party  then  existing  in  the  country,  no  rational  man  could, 
for  a  moment,  term  the  event  of  a  sudden  fray  a  premed- 
itated murder,  or  the  violence  of  the  aggrieved  the  black 
otrence  of  a  wilful  criminal.  Wolfe,  therefore,  soon 
obtained  a  release  from  the  confinement  to  which  he  had 


THE   DISOWNED.  255 

been  first  committed ;  and  with  a  temper  still  more  ex- 
asperated by  the  evident  disposition  of  his  auditors  to 
have  treated  him,  had  it  been  possible,  with  the  utmost 
rigor,  he  returned  to  companions  well  calculated,  by 
their  converse  and  bent  of  mind,  to  inflame  the  fester 
of  his  moral  constitution. 

It  happens,  generally,  that  men  very  vehement  in 
any  particular  opinion  choose  their  friends,  not  for  a 
general  similarity  of  character,  but  in  proportion  to  their 
mutual  congeniality  of  sentiment  upon  that  particular 
opinion ;  it  happens,  also,  that  those  most  audibly  vio- 
lent, if  we  may  so  speak,  upon  any  opinion,  moral  or 
political,  are  rarely  the  wisest  or  the  purest  of  their 
party.  Those  with  whom  Wolfe  was  intimate,  were  men 
who  shared  none  of  the  nobler  characteristics  of  the  re- 
publican; still  less  did  they  participate,  or  even  compre- 
hend the  enlightened  and  benevolent  views  for  which 
the  wise  and  great  men  of  that  sect  —  a  sect  to  which  all 
philanthropy  is,  perhaps  too  fondly,  inclined  to  lean — • 
have  been  so  conspicuously  eminent.  On  the  contrary, 
Wolfe's  comrades,  without  education,  and  consequently 
without  principle,  had  been  driven  to  disafiection  by 
desperate  fortunes  and  ruined  reputations  acting  upon 
minds  polluted  by  the  ignorance,  and  hardened  among 
the  dross  of  the  populace.  But  the  worst  can,  by  con- 
stant intercourse,  corrupt  the  best;  and  the  barriers  of 
good  and  evil,  often  confused  in  Wolfe's  mind  by  the 
blindness  of  his  passions,  seemed,  as  his  intercourse  with 
these  lawless  and  ruffian  associates  thickened,  to  be  at 
last  utterly  broken  down  and  swept  away. 

Unhappily,  too,  —  soon  after  Wolfe's  return  to  Lon- 
don,—  the  popular  irritation  showed  itself  in  mobs,  per- 
haps rather  to  be  termed  disorderly  than  seditious :  the 
ministers,  however,  thought  otherwise;  the  military 
were  summoned,  and  much  injury,  resulting,  it  is  to  be 


256  THE    DISOWNED. 

hoped,  from  accident,  not  design,  ensued  to  many  of  the 
persons  assemhh'd.  Some  were  severely  ■wounded  by 
tlie  swords  of  the  soldiers,  others  maimed  and  trampled 
upon  by  the  horses,  wliich  shared  the  agitation  or  irri- 
tability of  their  riders;  and  a  few,  among  whom  were 
two  women  and  three  children,  lost  their  lives.  Wolfe 
had  been  one  of  the  crowd;  and  the  scene,  melancholy  as 
it  really  was,  and  appearing  to  his  temper  unredeemed 
and  inexcusable  on  the  part  of  the  soldiers,  left  on  his 
mind  a  deep  and  burning  impression  of  revenge.  Jus- 
tice (as  they  termed  it)  was  demanded  by  strong  bodies 
of  the  people  upon  the  soldiers;  but  the  administration 
deeming  it  politic  rather  to  awe  than  to  conciliate,  so  far 
from  censuring  the  military,  approved  their  exertions. 

From  that  time  Wolfe  appears  to  have  resolved  upon 
the  execution  of  a  design  which  he  had  long  imperfectly 
and  confusedly  meditated. 

This  was  no  less  a  crime  (and  to  him  did  conscien- 
tiously seem  no  less  a  virtue)  than  to  seize  a  favorable 
opportunity  for  assassinating  the  most  prominent  member 
of  the  administration,  and  the  one  who,  above  all  the 
rest,  was  the  most  odious  to  the  disaffected.  It  must  be 
urged,  in  extenuation  of  tlie  atrocity  of  this  design,  that 
a  man  perpetually  brooding  over  one  scheme,  which  to 
him  has  become  the  very  sustenance  of  existence,  and 
which  scheme,  perpetually  frustrated,  grows  desperate, 
by  disappointment,  acquires  a  heat  of  morl)id  and  oblique 
enthusiasm  which  may  not  })e  unreasonably  termed 
insanity;  and  that,  at  tlie  very  time  Wolfe  reconciled  it 
to  his  conscience  to  commit  tlie  murder  of  his  fellow- 
creature,  he  would  have  moved  out  of  his  path  for  a 
worm.  Assassination,  indeed,  seemed  to  him  justice; 
and  a  felon's  execution  the  glory  of  martyrdom.  And 
yet,  0  Fanatic,  thou  didst  anathematize  the  duellist  as 
the  man  of  blood,  —  what  is  the  assassin  1 


THE  DISOWNED.  257 


CHAPTER  LXXXI. 

And  thou  that,  silent  at  my  knee, 

Dost  lift  to  mine  thy  soft,  dark,  earnest  eyes, 
Filled  with  the  love  of  childho(jd,  which  I  see 

Pure  through  its  depths,  — a  thing  without  disguise: 
Thou  that  hast  breathed  in  slumber  ou  my  breast. 
When  I  have  checked  its  throbs  to  give  thee  rest, 

Mme  own,  whose  young  thoughts  fresh  before  me  rise. 
Is  it  not  much  that  I  may  guide  thy  prayer, 
And  circle  thy  young  soul  with  free  and  healthful  air  "* 

He  MANS. 

The  events  we  have  recorded,  from  the  time  of  Clar- 
ence's visit  to  Mordaunt  to  the  death  of  Lord  Ulswater, 
took  place  within  little  more  than  a  week.  We  have 
now  to  pass  in  silence  over  several  weeks,  and  as  it  was 
the  commencement  of  autumn  when  we  introduced  Clar- 
ence and  Mordaunt  to  our  reader,  so  it  is  the  first  open- 
ing of  winter  in  which  we  will  resume  the  thread  of  our 
narration. 

Mordaunt  had  removed  to  London;  and  although  he 
had  not  yet  taken  any  share  in  public  business,  he  was 
only  watching  the  opportunity  to  commence  a  career,  the 
brilliancy  of  which  those  Avho  knew  aught  of  his  mind 
began  already  to  foretell.  But  he  mixed  little,  if  at  all, 
with  the  gayer  occupants  of  the  world's  prominent  places. 
Absorbed  alternately  in  his  studies  and  his  labors  of 
good,  the  halls  of  pleasure  were  seldom  visited  by  his 
presence;  and  they  who,  in  the  crowd,  knew  nothing  of 
him  but  his  name  and  the  lofty  bearing  of  his  mien,  re- 
coiled from  the  coldness  of  his  exterior,  and,  while  they 
marvelled  at  his  retirement  and  reserve,  saw  in  both  but 

.  VOL  11—17 


258  THE   DISOWNED. 

the   moroseness  of   the  student,  and    the  gloom  of  the 
misanthropist. 

But  the  nobleness  of  his  person,  the  antiquity  of  his 
birth,  his  wealth,  his  unblemished  character,  and  the 
interest  thrown  over  his  name  by  the  reputation  of  tal- 
ent and  the  unpenetrated  mystery  of  his  life,  — all  pow- 
erfully spoke  in  his  favor  to  those  of  the  gentler  sex,  who 
judge  us  not  only  from  what  we  are  to  others,  but  from 
what  they  imagine  we  can  be  to  them.  From  such  allure- 
ments, however,  as  from  all  else,  the  mourner  turned 
only  the  more  deeply  to  cherish  the  memory  of  the  dead; 
and  it  was  a  touching  and  holy  sight  to  mark  the  mingled 
excess  of  melancholy  and  fondness  with  which  he 
watched  over  that  treasure  in  whose  young  beauty  and 
guileless  heart  his  departed  Isabel  had  yet  left  the  resem- 
blance of  her  features  and  her  love.  There  seemed  be- 
tween them  to  exist  even  a  dearer  and  closer  tie  than 
that  of  daughter  and  sire;  for  in  both,  the  objects  which 
usually  divided  the  affections  of  the  man  or  the  child 
had  but  a  feeble  charm:  Isabel's  mind  had  expanded 
beyond  her  years,  and  Algernon's  had  outgrown  his 
time;  so  that  neither  the  sports  natural  to  her  age,  nor 
the  ambition  ordinary  to  his,  were  sufficient  to  wean  or 
to  distract  the  unity  of  their  love.  When,  after  absence, 
his  well-known  step  trod  lightly  in  the  hall,  her  ear, 
which  had  listened  and  longed  and  thirsted  for  the  sound, 
taught  her  fairy  feet  to  be  the  first  to  welcome  his  re- 
turn ;  and,  when  the  slightest  breath  of  sickness  men- 
aced her  slender  frame,  it  was  his  hand  that  smoothed 
her  pillow,  and  his  smile  that  cheered  away  lier  pain; 
and  when  she  sank  into  sleep,  she  knew  that  a  father's 
heart  watched  over  her  through  the  long  but  untiring 
night,  — that  a  father's  eye  would  be  the  iiist  which,  on 
waking,  she  would  meet. 


THE   DISOWNED.  259 

"  Oh!  beautiful,  and  rare  as  beautiful,"  was  that  affec- 
tion: in  the  parent  no  earthlier  or  harder  sternness  in 
authority,  nor  weakness  in  doatiug,  nor  caprice  in  love  ; 
iu  the  child,  no  fear-debasing  reverence,  yet  no  famil- 
iarity diminishing  respect.  But  Love,  whose  pride  is 
in  serving,  seemed  to  make  at  once  soft  and  hallowed 
the  offices  mutually  rendered,  — and  nature,  never  coun- 
teracted in  her  dictates,  wrought,  without  a  visible 
effort,  the  proper  channels  into  which  those  offices 
should  flow ;  and  that  charity  which  not  only  covers 
sins,  but  lifts  the  veil  from  virtues  whose  beauty  might 
otherwise  have  lain  concealed,  linked  them  closer  and 
closer,  and  threw  over  that  link  the  sanctity  of  itself. 
For  it  was  Algernon's  sweetest  pleasure  to  make  her 
young  hands  the  ministers  of  good  to  others,  and  to 
drink,  at  such  times,  from  the  rich  glow  of  her  angel 
countenance  the  purified  selfishness  of  his  reward.  And 
when  after  the  divine  joy  of  blessing,  which,  perhaps, 
the  youngest  taste  yet  more  vividly  tlian  their  sires,  she 
threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  thanked  him  with, 
glad  tears  for  the  luxury  he  had  bestowed  upon  her, 
how  could  they,  in  that  gushing  overflow  of  heart,  help 
loving  each  other  the  more,  or  feeling  that  in  that  love 
there  was  something  which  justified  the  excess? 

Nor  have  we  drawn  with  too  exaggerating  a  pencil, 
nor,  though  Isabel's  mind  was  older  than  her  years, 
extended  that  prematureness  to  her  heart.  For,  where 
we  set  the  example  of  benevolence,  and  see  that  the 
example  is  in  nought  corrupted,  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  will  flow  not  the  least  readily  from  the  youngest 
breast,  and  out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  will  come  the 
wisdom  of  charity  and  love ! 

Ever  since  Mordaunt's  arrival  in  tov/n,  he  had  sought 
out  Wolfe's  abode,  for  the  purpose  of  ministering  to  the 


260  THE   DISOWNED. 

poverty  under  which  he  rightly  conjectured  that  the  re- 
publican lahored,  lUit  the  hahitation  of  one,  needy, 
distressed,  seldom  living  long  in  one  place,  and  far  less 
notorious  of  late  than  he  had  formerly  been,  was  not  easy 
to  discover;  nor  was  it  till  after  long  and  vain  search 
that  he  ascertained  the  retreat  of  his  singular  acquaint- 
ance. The  day  in  which  he  effected  tliis  object  we  shall 
have  hereafter  occasion  to  specify.  Meanwhile  we  return 
to  Mr.  Crauford. 


THE   DISOWNED.  261 


CHAPTER  LXXXII. 

Plot  on  thy  little  hour,  and,  skein  on  skein, 
Weave  the  vain  mesh,  in  which  thy  subtle  soul 
Broods  on  its  venom  !     Lo  !  behind,  before, 
Around  thee,  like  an  armament  of  cloud. 
The  black  Fate  labors  onward ! 

Anon. 

The  dusk  of  a  winter's  evening  gathered  over  a  room  in 
Crauford's  house  in  town,  only  relieved  from  the  closing 
darkness  by  an  expiring  and  sullen  fire,  beside  which 
Mr.  Bradley  sat,  with  his  feet  upon  the  fender,  appar- 
ently striving  to  coax  some  warmth  into  the  icy  palms  of 
his  spread  hands.  Crauford  himself  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  room  with  a  changeful  step,  and  ever  and 
anon  glancing  his  bright,  shrewd  eye  at  the  partner  of 
his  fraud,  who,  seemingly  unconscious  of  the  observation 
he  underwent,  appeared  to  occupy  his  attention  solely 
with  the  difficulty  of  warming  his  meagre  and  withered 
frame, 

"Aren't  you  very  cold  there,  sir?"  said  Bradley, 
after  a  long  pause,  and  pushing  himself  farther  into  the 
verge  of  the  dying  embers,  —  "  may  I  not  ring  for  some 
more  coals  1  " 

"Hell  and  the —  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  good 
Bradley,  but  you  vex  me  beyond  patience:  how  can  you 
think  of  such  trifles  when  our  very  lives  are  in  so  im- 
minent a  danger  1  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  honored  benefactor;  they 
are  indeed  in  danger!  " 


262  THE   DISOWNED. 

"Bradloy,  we  have  but  one  hope,  —  fidelity  to  each 
other.  If  we  persist  in  the  same  story,  not  a  tittle  can 
be  brought  home  to  us, —  not  a  tittle,  my  good  Bradley; 
and  though  our  characters  may  be  a  little  touched,  wliy, 
what  is  a  character?  Shall  we  cat  less,  drink  less,  enjoy 
less,  when  we  have  lost  it?  Not  a  whit.  No,  my 
friend,  we  will  go  abroad  :  leave  it  to  me  to  save  from  the 
wreck  of  our  fortunes  enough  to  live  upon  like  princes." 

"  If  not  like  peers,  my  honored  benefactor. " 

"  'Sdcath !  —  yes,  yes,  very  good  —  he !  he !  he !  if  not 
peers.  Well,  all  happiness  is  in  the  senses,  and  Richard 
Crauford  has  as  many  senses  as  Viscount  Innisdale ;  but 
had  we  been  able  to  protract  inquir}'  another  week, 
Bradley,  why,  1  would  have  been  my  Lord,  and  you 
Sir  John." 

"You  bear  your  losses  like  a  hero,  sir,"  said  Mr, 
Bradley. 

"  To  be  sure;  there  is  no  loss,  man,  but  life,  —  none; 
let  us  preserve  that,  — and  it  will  be  our  own  fault  if  we 
don't,  — and  the  devil  take  all  the  rest.  But  bless  me, 
it  grows  late,  and,  at  all  events,  we  are  safe  for  some 
hours;  the  inquiry  won't  take  place  till  twelve  to- 
morrow, —  why  should  we  not  feast  till  twelve  to-night? 
Ring,  my  good  fellow,  dinner  must  be  nearly  ready." 

"Why,  honored  sir,"  said  Bradley,  "I  want  to  go 
home  to  see  my  wife,  and  arrange  my  house.  Who 
knows  but  I  may  sleep  in  Newgate  to-morrow  ?  " 

Crauford,  who  had  been  still  walking  to  and  fro, 
stopped  abruptly  at  this  speech,  and  his  eye,  even 
through  the  gloom,  shot  out  a  livid  and  fierce  light, 
before  which  the  timid  and  humble  glance  of  Mr.  Brad- 
ley quailed  in  an  instant. 

"Go  home!  —  no,  my  friend,  no,  I  can't  part  with 
you   to-night,  no,  not  for   an    instant.      I  have    many 


THE  DISOWNED.  263 

lessons  to  give  you.  How  are  we  to  learn  our  parts  for 
to-morrow,  if  we  don't  rehearse  them  beforehand?  Do 
you  not  know  that  a  single  blunder  may  turn  what  I 
hope  will  be  a  farce  into  a  tragedy  ?  Go  home!  —  pooh, 
pooh,  — why,  man,  I  have  not  seen  my  wife,  nor  put  my 
house  to  rights,  and  if  you.  do  but  listen  to  me,  I  tell 
you  again  and  again  that  not  a  hair  of  our  heads  can  be 
touched. " 

"You  know  best,  honored  sir;  I  bow  to  your  de- 
cision." 

"Bravo,  honest  Brad!  and  now  for  dinner.  I  have 
the  most  glorious  champagne  that  ever  danced  in  foam 
to  your  lip.  No  counsellor  like  the  bottle,  believe 
me!  " 

And  the  servant  entering  to  announce  dinner,  Crau- 
ford  took  Bradley's  arm,  and  leaning  affectionately  upon 
it,  passed  through  an  obsequious  and  liveried  row  of 
domestics  to  a  room  blazing  Avith  light  and  plate.  A 
noble  fire  was  the  first  thing  which  revived  Bradley's 
spirit,  and  as  he  spread  his  hands  over  it  before  he  sat 
down  to  the  table,  he  surveyed,  with  a  gleam  of  glad- 
ness upon  his  thin  cheeks,  two  vases  of  glittering  metal 
formerly  the  boast  of  a  king,  in  which  were  immersed 
the  sparkling  genii  of  the  grape. 

Crauford,  always  a  gourmand,  ate  with  unusual  appe- 
tite, and  pressed  the  wine  upon  Bradley  with  an  eager 
hospitality  which  soon  somewhat  clouded  the  senses 
of  the  worthy  man.  The  dinner  was  removed,  the  ser- 
vants retired,  and  the  friends  were  left  alone. 

"  A  pleasant  trip  to  "France!  "  cried  Crauford,  filling  a 
bumper.  "  That 's  the  land  for  hearts  like  ours.  I  tell 
you  what,  little  Brad,  we  will  leave  our  wives  behind 
us,  and  take,  with  a  new  country  and  new  names,  a  new 
lease  of  life.     What  will  it  signify  to  men  making  love 


264  THE   DISOWNED. 

at  Paris  what  fools  say  of  them  in  London  ?  Another 
bumper,  honest  Brad,  —  a  bumper  to  the  girls!  Wliat 
say  you  to  that,  eh  ?  " 

"  Lord,  sir,  you  are  so  facetious, —  so  ^yitty!  It  must 
be  owned  that  a  black  eye  is  a  great  temptation,  —  Lira- 
lira,  la-la!  "  And  ]\Ir.  Bradley's  own  eyes  rolled 
joyously. 

"  Bravo,  Brad!  — a  song,  a  song!  but  treason  to  King 
Burgundy !     Your  glass  is  —  " 

"  Empty,  honored  sir,  I  know  it!  —  Lira-lira  la!  —  but 
it  is  easily  filled!  We  who  have  all  our  lives  been 
pouring  from  one  vessel  into  another,  know  how  to  keep 
it  up  to  the  last! 

'  Courage,  then,  cries  the  knight,  we  may  yet  be  forgiven, 
Or  at  worst  buy  the  bishop's  reversion  in  heaven  ; 
Our  frequent  escapes  in  tliis  world  sliow  how  true  't  is, 
That  gold  is  the  only  Elixir  Sahitis. 

Dcrry  down,  derry  down. 

'  All  yon,  who  to  swindling  conveniently  creep. 
Ne'er  piddle,  —  by  thousands  the  treasury  sweep ; 
Your  safety  depends  on  the  weight  of  the  sum, 
For  no  rope  was  yet  made  that  could  tie  up  a  plum. 
Derry  down,  etc'  "  ^ 

"Bravissirao,  little  Brad!  —  you  are  quite  a  wit. 
See  what  it  is  to  have  one's  faculties  called  out.  Come, 
a  toast  to  old  England,  the  land  in  which  no  man  ever 
wants  a  farthing  who  has  wit  to  steal  it,  —  '  old  England 
forever!  '  — your  rogue  is  your  only  tnie  patriot!  "  —  and 
Crauford  poured  the  remainder  of  the  bottle,  nearly 
three  parts  full,  into  a  beaker,  which  he  pushed  to 
Bradley.  That  convivial  gentleman  emptied  it  at  a 
draught,  and   faltering  out,  "Honest  Sir  John!  —  room 

1  From  a  ballad  called,  "  The  Knight  and  the  Prelate." 


THE   DISOWNED.  2G5 

for  my  Lady  Bradley's  carriage,"  dropped  down  on  the 
floor  insensible. 

Crauford  rose  instantly,  satisfied  himself  that  the  in- 
toxication was  genuine,  and  giving  the  lifeless  body  a 
kick  of  contemptuous  disgust,  left  the  room,  muttering, 
"  The  dull  ass,  did  he  think  it  was  on  his  back  that  I 
was  going  to  ride  off  !  He!  he!  he!  But  stay,  let  me 
feel  my  pulse.  Too  fast  by  twenty  strokes!  One  's 
never  sure  of  the  mind,  if  one  does  not  regulate  the  body 
to  a  hair !  Drank  too  much,  —  must  take  a  powder  be- 
fore I  start." 

Mounting  by  aback  staircase  to  his  bedroom,  Crauford 
unlocked  a  chest,  took  out  a  bundle  of  clerical  clothes,  a 
large  shovel-hat,  and  a  huge  wig.  Hastily,  but  not 
carelessly  induing  himself  in  these  articles  of  disguise, 
he  then  proceeded  to  stain  his  fair  cheeks  with  a  prepa- 
ration which  soon  gave  them  a  swarthy  hue.  Putting 
his  own  clothes  in  the  chest,  which  he  carefully  locked 
(placing  the  key  in  his  pocket) ,  he  next  took  from  a 
desk  on  his  dressing-table  a  purse;  opening  this,  he 
extracted  a  diamond  of  great  size  and  immense  value, 
which,  years  before,  in  preparation  of  the  event  that 
had  now  taken  place,  he  had  purchased. 

His  usual  sneer  curled  his  lip  as  he  gazed  at  it. 
"N'ow,"  said  he,  "  is  it  not  strange  that  this  little  stone 
should  supply  the  mighty  wants  of  that  grasping  thing, 
man!  Who  talks  of  religion,  country,  wife,  children? 
This  petty  mineral  can  purchase  them  all!  Oh,  what 
a  bright  joy  speaks  out  in  your  white  cheek,  my  beauty  I 
What  are  all  human  charms  to  yours?  Why,  by  your 
spell,  most  magical  of  talismans,  my  years  may  walk, 
gloating  and  revelling,  through  a  lane  of  beauties  till 
they  fall  into  the  grave  !  Pish !  —  that  grave  is  an  ugly 
thought,  — a  very,  very  ugly  thought!     But  come,  my 


2G6  THE   DISOWNKD, 

sun  of  hope,  I  must  eclipse  you  for  a  while!  Type  of 
myself,  — while  you  hide,  I  hide  also;  and  when  I  once 
more  let  you  forth  to  the  day,  then  shine  out  Richard 
Crauford  —  shine  out!"  So  saying,  he  sewed  the 
diamond  carefully  in  the  folds  of  his  shirt,  and,  rear- 
ranging his  dress,  took  the  cooling  powder,  which  he 
weighed  out  to  a  grain  with  a  scrupulous  and  untrem- 
bling  hand,  descended  the  back  stairs,  opened  the  door, 
and  found  himself  in  the  open  street. 

The  clock  struck  ten  as  he  entered  a  hackney-coach 
and  drove  to  another  part  of  London.  "  What,  so  late !  " 
thought  he :  "  I  must  be  at  Dover  in  twelve  hours,  —  the 
vessel  sails  then.  Humph!  —  some  danger  yet!  "What 
a  pity  that  I  could  not  trust  that  fool.  He!  he!  he!  — 
what  will  he  think  to-morrow,  when  he  wakes  and  finds 
that  only  one  is  destined  to  swing!  " 

The  hackney-coach  stopped,  according  to  his  direction, 
at  an  inn  in  the  City.  Here  Crauford  asked  if  a  note 
had  been  left  for  Dr.  Stapylton.  One  (written  by  him- 
self) was  given  to  him.  "  Merciful  Heaven !  "  cried 
the  false  doctor,  as  he  read  it,  "  my  daughter  is  on  a  bed 
of  death!  " 

The  landlord's  look  wore  anxiety,  —  the  doctor 
seemed  for  a  moment  paralyzed  by  silent  woe.  He  re- 
covered, shook  his  head  piteously,  and  ordered  a  post- 
chaise  and  four  on  to  Canterbury  without  delay. 

"  It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good!  "  thought 
the  landlord,  as  he  issued  the  order  into  the  yard. 

The  chaise  was  soon  out,  the  doctor  entered,  off  went 
the  postboys,  and  Richard  Crauford,  feeling  his  diamond, 
turned  his  thoughts  to  safety  and  to  France. 

A  little,  unknown  man,  who  had  been  sitting  at  the 
bar  for  the  last  two  hours,  sipping  brandy-and-water, 
and  who,  from  his  extreme  taciturnity  and  quiet,  had 


THE    DISOWNED.  267 

been  scarcely  observed,  now  rose.  "  Landlord,"  said  he, 
"  do  you  know  who  that  gentleman  is  1  " 

"Why,"  quoth  Boniface,  "the  letter  to  him  was  di- 
rected, '  For  the  Rev.  Dr.  Stapylton,  —  will  be  called 
for.'" 

"  Ah!  "  said  the  little  man,  yawning,  —  "I  shall  have 
a  long  night's  work  of  it.  Have  you  another  chaise  and 
four  in  the  yard  1  " 

"  To  be  sure,  sir,  to  be  sure  !  "  cried  the  landlord  in 
astonishment. 

"  Out  with  it,  then !  Another  glass  of  brandy-and- 
water:  a  little  stronger,  —  no  sugar!  " 

The  landlord  stared,  the  barmaid  stared,  even  the 
head- waiter,  a  very  stately  person,  stared  too. 

"  Hark  ye,"  said  the  little  man,  sipping  his  brandy- 
and-water,  "  I  am  a  deuced  good-natured  fellow,  so  I  '11 
make  you  a  great  man  to-night;  for  nothing  makes  a 
man  so  great  as  being  let  into  a  great  secret.  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  the  rich  Mr.  Crauford  1  " 

"  Certainly;  who  has  not?  " 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him  ?  " 

"  No;  T  can't  say  I  ever  did." 

"  You  lie,  landlord,  — you  saw  him  to-night." 

"  Sir!  "  cried  the  landlord,  bristling  up. 

The  little  man  pulled  out  a  brace  of  pistols,  and  very 
quietly  began  priming  them  out  of  a  small  powder-flask. 

The  landlord  started  back,  the  head-waiter  cried 
"  rape,"  and  the  barmaid  "  murder." 

"  Who  the  devil  are  you,  sir?  "  cried  the  landlord. 

"  Mr.  Tickletrout,  the  celebrated  officer,  —  thief-taker, 
as  they  call  it.  Have  a  care,  ma'am,  the  pistols  are 
loaded.  I  see  the  chaise  is  out,  —  there  's  the  reckoning, 
landlord. " 

"  0  Lord!     I  'm  sure  I  don't  want  any  reckoning,  — 


268  THE   DISOWNED. 

too  great  an  honor  for  my  poor  house  to  be  favored  with 
your  company;  but"  (following  the  little  man  to  the 
door)  "  whom  did  you  please  to  say  you  were  going  to 
catch  ?  " 

"Mr.  Crauford,  alias  Dr.  Stapylton." 

"Lord!  Lord!  — to  think  of  it, — how  shocking! 
What  has  he  done  1  " 

"  Swindled,  I  believe." 

"My  eyes!  And  why,  sir,  did  not  you  catch  him 
when  he  was  in  the  bar  1  " 

"Because  then  I  should  not  have  got  paid  for  my 
journey  to  Dover.  Shut  the  door,  boy ;  first  stage  on  to 
Canterbury." 

And,  drawing  a  woollen  nightcap  over  his  ears,  Mv. 
Tickletrout  resigned  himself  to  his  nocturnal  excursion. 

On  the  very  day  on  which  the  patent  for  his  peerage 
was  to  have  been  made  out ;  on  the  very  day  on  which 
he  had  afterwards  calculated  on  reaching  Paris,  —  on 
that  very  day  was  Mr.  Eichard  Crauford  lodged  in 
Newgate,  fully  committed  for  a  trial  of  life  and  death. 


THE   DISOWNED.  269 


CHAPTER  LXXXIII. 

There,  if,  0  gentle  love !  I  read  aright 
The  utterance  that  sealed  thv  sacred  bond  : 
'T  was  listening  to  those  accents  of  delight 
She  hid  upon  his  breast  those  eyes,  —  beyond 
Expression's  power  to  paint,  —  all  languishingly  fond. 

Ca3IPBELL. 

"And  you  will  positively  leave  us  for  London,"  said 
Lady  Flora,  tenderly ,  "  and  to-morrow  too !  "  This 
was  said  to  one  who,  under  the  name  of  Clarence  Lin- 
den, has  played  the  principal  part  in  our  drama,  and 
who  now,  by  the  death  of  his  brother,  succeeding  to  the 
honors  of  his  house,  we  present  to  our  reader  as  Clinton 
L'Estrange,  Earl  of  Ulswater. 

They  were  alone  in  the  memorable  pavilion ;  and 
though  it  was  winter,  the  sun  shone  cheerily  into  the 
apartment;  and  through  the  door,  which  was  left  partly 
open,  the  evergreens,  contrasting  with  the  leafless  boughs 
of  the  oak  and  beech,  could  be  just  descried,  furnishing 
the  lover  with  some  meet  simile  of  love,  and  deceiving 
the  eyes  of  those  willing  to  be  deceived  with  a  resem- 
blance to  the  departed  summer.  The  unusual  mildness 
of  the  day  seemed  to  operate  genially  upon  the  birds,  — 
those  children  of  light  and  song;  and  they  grouped 
blithely  beneath  the  window  and  round  the  door,  where 
the  hand  of  the  kind  young  spirit  of  the  place  had  so 
often  ministered  to  their  wants.  Every  now  and  then, 
too,  you  might  hear  the  shrill  glad  note  of  the  blackbird 
keeping  measure  to  his  swift  and  low  flight,  and  some- 
times a  vagrant   hare  from  the   neighboring  preserves 


270  THE    DISOWNED. 

sauntered  fearlessly  hy  the  half-sliut  door,  secure,  from 
long  experience,  of  an  asylum  in  the  vicinity  of  one  who 
had  drawn  from  the  breast  of  nature  a  tenderness  and 
love  for  all   its  offspring. 

Her  lover  sat  at  Flora's  feet;  and,  looking  upward, 
seemed  to  seek  out  the  fond  and  melting  eyes  which,  too 
conscious  of  their  secret,  turned  bashfully  from  his  gaze. 
He  had  drawn  her  arm  over  his  shoulder;  and  clasping 
that  small  and  snowy  hand,  which,  long  coveted  with  a 
miser's  desire,  was  at  length  won,  he  pressed  upon  it  a 
thousand  kisses,  —  sweeter  beguilers  of  time  than  even 
words.  All  had  been  long  explained, — the  space  be- 
tween their  hearts  anniliilated;  doubt,  anxiety,  miscon- 
struction, those  clouds  of  love,  had  passed  away,  and 
left  not  a  Avreck  to  obscure  its  heaven. 

"And  you  will  leave  us  to-morrow, —  must  it  be 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"Ah!  Flora,  it  must;  but  see,  I  have  yoiir  lock  of 
hair  —  your  beautiful,  dark  hair,  to  kiss,  when  I  am 
away  from  you;  and  I  shall  have  your  letters,  dearest, 
—  a  letter  every  day;  and  oh!  more  than  all,  I  shall 
have  the  hope,  the  certainty,  that  when  we  meet  again, 
you  Avill  be  mine  forever." 

"  And  I,  too,  must,  by  seeing  it  in  your  handwriting, 
learn  to  reconcile  myself  to  your  new  name.  Ah!  I 
wish  you  had  been  still  Clarence,  —  only  Clarence. 
Wealth,  rank,  power,  — what  are  all  these  but  rivals  to 
poor  Flora?" 

Lady  Flora  sighed,  and  the  next  moment  blushed; 
and,  what  with  the  sigh  and  the  blush,  Clarence's  lip 
wandered  from  the  hand  to  the  cheek,  and  thence  to  a 
moutli  on  whicli  the  west  Avind  seemed  to  have  left  the 
sweets  of  a  thousand  summers. 


THE   DISOWNED.  271 


CHAPTER  LXXXIV. 

A  Houndsditch  man,  one  of  the  devil's  near  kinsmen,  —  a  broker. 

Every  Man  in  his  Humor. 

We  have  here  discovered  the  most  dangerous  piece  of  lechery  that 
ever  was  known  in  the  commonwealth. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

It  was  an  evening  of  mingled  rain  and  wind,  the  hour 
about  nine,  when  Mr.  Morris  Brown,  under  the  shelter 
of  that  admirable  umbrella  of  sea-green  silk  to  which 
we  have  before  had  the  honor  to  summon  the  attention 
of  our  readers,  was,  after  a  day  of  business,  plodding 
homeward  his  weary  way.  The  obscure  streets  through 
which  his  course  was  bent  were  at  no  time  very  thickly 
thronged,  and,  at  the  present  hour,  the  inclemency  of 
the  night  rendered  them  utterly  deserted.  It  is  true 
that  now  and  then  a  solitary  female,  holding  up,  with 
one  hand,  garments  already  piteously  bedraggled,  and 
with  the  other  thrusting  her  umbrella  in  the  very  teeth 
of  the  hostile  winds,  might  be  seen  crossing  the  inter- 
sected streets,  and  vanishing  amid  the  subterranean 
recesses  of  some  kitchen  area,  or  tramping  onward  amidst 
the  mazes  of  the  metropolitan  labyrinth,  till,  like  the 
cuckoo,  "  heard,"  but  no  longer  "  seen,"  the  echo  of  her 
retreating  pattens  made  a  dying  music  to  the  reluctant 
ear;  or  indeed,  at  intervals  of  unfrequent  occurrence,  a 
hackney  vehicle  jolted,  rumbling,  bumping  over  the 
uneven  stones,  as  if  groaning  forth  its  gratitude  to  the 
elements  for  which  it  was  indebted  for  its  fare.  Some- 
times also  a  chivalrous  gallant  of  the  feline  species  ven- 


272  THE   DISOWNED. 

turctl  its  delicate  paws  upon  the  streaming  pavement, 
and  shook,  with  a  small  hut  dismal  cry,  the  rain-drops 
from  the  pyramidal  roufs  of  its  tender  ears. 

But,  save  these  occasional  infringements  on  its  em- 
pire, solitude,  dark,  comfortless,  and  unrelieved,  fell 
around  the  creaking  footsteps  of  Mr.  IMorris  Brown. 
"I  wish,"  soliloquized  the  worthy  broker,  "that  I  had 
been  able  advantageoiisly  to  dispose  of  this  cursed  um- 
brella of  the  late  Lady  Waddilove;  it  is  very  little 
calculated  for  any  but  a  single  lady  of  slender  shape, 
and  though  it  certainly  keeps  the  rain  off  my  hat,  it  only 
sends  it  with  a  double  dripping  upon  my  shoulders. 
Pish!  deuce  take  the  umbrella,  I  shall  catch  my  death 
of  cold !  " 

These  complaints  of  an  affliction  that  was  assuredly 
sufficient  to  irritate  the  naturally  sweet  temper  of  INIr. 
Brown,  only  ceased,  as  that  industrious  personage  paused 
at  the  corner  of  the  street,  for  the  purpose  of  selecting 
the  dryest  part  through  which  to  effect  the  miserable  act 
of  crossing  to  the  opposite  side.  Occupied  in  stretching 
his  neck  over  the  kennel,  in  order  to  take  the  fullest 
survey  of  its  topography  which  the  scanty  and  agitated 
lamps  would  allow,  the  unhappy  wanderer,  lowering  his 
umbrella,  suffered  a  cross  and  violent  gust  of  wind  to 
rush,  as  if  on  purpose,  against  the  interior.  The 
rapidity  with  which  this  was  done,  and  the  sudden 
impetus,  which  gave  to  the  inflated  silk  the  force  of  a 
balloon,  happening  to  occur  exactly  at  the  moment  ]\lr. 
Brown  was  stooping  with  such  Avistful  anxiety  over  tlie 
pavement,  that  gentleman,  to  his  inexpressible  dismay, 
was  absolutely  lifted,  as  it  were,  ivom  his  present  foot- 
ing, and  immersed  in  a  running  rivulet  of  liquid  mire, 
which  flowed  immediately  below  tlie  pavement.  Is^or 
was  this  all ;  for  the  wind,  finding  itself  somewhat  im- 


THE    DISOV.'NED.  273 

prisoned  in  the  narroAV  receptacle  it  had  thus  abruptly 
entered,  made  so  strenuous  an  exertion  to  extricate  it- 
self, that  it  turned  Lady  Waddilove's  memorable  relic 
utterly  inside  out;  so  that  when  Mr.  Brown,  aghast  at 
the  calamity  of  his  immersion,  lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven, 
with  a  devotion  that  had  in  it  more  of  expostulation  than 
submission,  he  beheld,  by  the  melancholy  lamps,  the 
apparition  of  his  umbrella,  the  exact  opposite  to  its 
legitimate  conformation,  and  seeming,  with  its  lengthy 
stick  and  inverted  summit,  the  actual  aPnd  absolute 
resemblance  of  a  gigantic  wine-glass. 

"  !N"ow,"  said  IMr.  Brown,  with  that  ironical  bitterness 
so  common  to  intense  despair,  —  "now,  that's  what  I 
call  pleasant." 

As  if  the  elements  were  guided  and  set  on  by  all  the 
departed  souls  of  those  whom  Mr.  Brown  had  at  any 
time  over-reached  in  his  profession,  scarcely  had  the 
afflicted  broker  uttered  this  brief  sentence  before  a  dis- 
charge of  rain,  tenfold  more  heavy  than  any  which  had 
yet  fallen,  tumbled  down  in  literal  torrents  upon  the 
defenceless  head  of  the  itinerant. 

"This  won't  do,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  plucking  up  cour- 
age, and  splashing  out  of  the  little  rivulet,  once  more 
into  tei'ra  firma,  — "  this  won't  do:  I  must  find  a  shel- 
ter somewhere.  Dear,  dear,  how  the  wet  runs  down 
me.  I  am  for  all  the  world  like  the  famous  dripping 
well  in  Derbyshire.  "What  a  beast  of  an  umbrella!  — 
I'll  never  buy  one  again  of  an  old  lady, — hang  me  if 
I  do." 

As  the  miserable  IMorris  uttered  these  sentences,  which 
gushed  out,  one  by  one,  in  a  broken  stream  of  complaint, 
he  looked  round  and  round  —  before,  behind,  beside  — 
for  some  temporary  protection  or  retreat.  In  vain,  — 
the  uncertainty  of  the  light  only  allowed  him  to  discover 

VOL.  II.  — 18 


274  THE    DISOWNED. 

houses  in  wliicli  no  portico  extendod  its  friendly  shelter, 
and  wlierc  even  the  doors  seemed  divested  of  the  narrow 
ledge  wherewith  they  are,  in  more  civilized  quarters, 
ordinarily  crowned. 

"  I  shall  certainly  have  the  rheumatism  all  this  win- 
ter," said  Mr.  Brown,  hurrying  onward  as  fast  as  he  was 
ahle.  Just  then,  glancing  desperately  down  a  narrow 
lane,  w^hich  crossed  his  path,  he  perceived  the  scaffold- 
ing of  a  house  in  which  repair  or  alteration  had  been  at 
■work.  A  ray  of  hope  flashed  across  him ;  he  redouhled 
his  speed,  and  entering  the  welcome  haven,  found  him- 
self entirely  protected  from  the  storm.  The  extent  of 
scaftblding  was,  indeed,  rather  considerable ;  and  though 
the  extreme  narrowness  of  the  lane,  and  the  increasing 
gloom  of  tlie  night,  left  Mr.  Brown  in  almost  total  dark- 
ness, so  that  he  could  not  perceive  the  exact  peculiari- 
ties of  his  situation,  yet  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with 
the  shelter  he  had  obtained;  and  after  shaking  the  rain 
from  his  hat,  squeezing  his  coat  sleeves  and  lappets, 
satisfying  himself  that  it  was  only  about  the  shoulders 
that  he  was  thoroughly  wetted,  and  thrusting  two  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  between  his  shirt  and  his  skin,  as  pre- 
ventives to  the  dreaded  rheumatism,  Mr.  Brown  leaned 
luxuriously  back  against  the  wall  in  the  farthest  corner 
of  his  retreat,  and  busied  himself  with  endeavoring  to 
restore  his  insulted  umbrella  to  its  oi'iginal  utility  of 
shape. 

Our  wanderer  had  been  about  three  minutes  in  this 
situation,  when  he  heard  the  voices  of  two  men  who 
were  hastening  along  the  lane. 

"But  do  stop,"  said  one;  and  these  were  the  first 
words  distinctly  audible  to  the  ear  of  Mr.  Brown ,  —  "  do 
stop:  the  rain  can't  last  much  longer,  and  Ave  have  a 
long  way  yet  to  go." 


THE    DISOWNED.  275 

"No,  no,"  said  the  other,  in  a  voice  more  imperious 
than  the  first,  which  was  evidently  plebeian,  and  some- 
what foreign  in  its  tone, — "no,  we  have  no  time. 
What  signify  the  inclemencies  of  weather  to  men  feed- 
ing upon  an  inward  and  burning  thought,  and  made,  by 
the  workings  of  the  mind,  almost  callous  to  the  con- 
tingencies of  the  frame  ?  " 

"Nay,  my  very  good  friend,"  said  the  first  speaker 
with  positive,  though  not  disrespectful,  earnestness, 
"  that  may  be  all  very  fine  for  you,  who  have  a  consti- 
tution like  a  horse ;  but  I  am  quite  a  —  Avhat  call  you 
it  —  an  invalid,  eh !  and  have  a  devilish  cough  ever 
since  I  have  been  in  this  d — d  country,  —  beg  your 
pardon,  no  offence  to  it,  —  so  I  shall  just  step  under 
cover  of  this  scaffolding  for  a  few  minutes,  and  if  you 
like  the  rain  so  much,  my  very  good  friend,  why  there 
is  plenty  of  room  in  the  lane  to  (ugh  —  ugh  —  ugh)  — 
to  enjoy  it." 

As  the  speaker  ended,  the  dim  light,  just  faintly 
glimmering  at  the  entrance  of  the  friendly  shelter,  was 
obscured  by  his  shadow,  and,  presently  afterwards,  liis 
companion  joining  him  said,  — ■ 

"Well,  if  it  must  be  so;  but  how  can  you  be  fit  to 
brave  all  the  perils  of  our  scheme,  when  you  shrink, 
like  a  palsied  crone,  from  the  sprinkling  of  a  few 
water-drops  1  " 

"  A  few  watev-clrops,  my  very  good  friend,"  answered 
the  other]  "a  few  —  what  call  you  them,  ay  —  water- 
falls  rather  (ugh  —  ugh) ;  but  let  me  tell  you,  my 
brother  citizen,  that  a  man  may  not  like  to  get  his  skin 
wet  with  Avater,  and  would  yet  thrust  his  arm  up  to  the 
very  elbow  in  blood  (ugh  —  ugh)." 

"The  devil!"  mentally  ejaculated  Mr.  Brown,  who 
at  the  word  "  scheme,"  had  advanced  one  step  from  his 


276  THE    DISOWNI^D. 

retreat,  l)ut  who  now,  at  the  L-xst  words  of  tlie  inl ruder, 
drew  back  as  gently  as  a  snail  into  his  sludl ;  and 
although  his  per-son  was  far  too  much  enveloped  in 
shade  to  run  the  least  chance  of  detection,  yet  the  hon- 
est broker  began  to  feel  a  little  tremor  viljrate  along  the 
chords  of  his  thrilling  frame,  and  a  new  anathema  against 
the  fatal  umbrella  rise  to  his  lips. 

"  Ah!  "  quoth  the  second,  "  I  trust  that  it  may  be  so; 
but  to  return  to  our  project,  —  are  you  quite  sure  that 
these  two  identical  ministers  are  in  tlie  rr;/ular  habit  of 
walkiiig  homeward  from  that  I'arliamcnt  which  their 
despotism  has  so  degraded  1  " 

"  Sure,  —  ay,  that  I  am;  Davidson  swears  to  it!  " 

"  And  you  are  also  sure  of  their  persons,  so  that,  even 
in  the  dusk,  you  can  recognize  them  1  —  for  you  know  I 
have  never  seen  them." 

"Sure  as  fivepence!  "  returned  the  first  speaker,  to 
■whose  mind  the  lives  of  the  persons  referred  to  were  of 
considerable  less  value  than  the  sum  elegantly  specified 
in  his  metaphorical  reply. 

"  Then,"  said  the  other,  with  a  deep,  stern  determina- 
tion of  tone, — "then  shall  this  hand,  by  which  one 
of  the  proudest  of  our  oppressors  has  already  fallen, 
be  made  a  still  worthier  instrument  of  the  wrath  of 
Heaven !  " 

"  You  are  a  d — d  pretty  shot,  I  believe,"  quoth  the 
first  speaker,  as  indifferently  as  if  he  were  praising  the 
address  of  a  Norfolk  squire. 

"  Never  yet  did  my  eye  misguide  me,  or  my  aim 
swerve  a  hair's-broadth  from  its  target!  I  tliought 
once,  when  I  learned  the  art  as  a  bo}^  that  in  l)attle, 
rather  than  in  the  execution  of  a  single  criminal,  that 
skill  would  avail  me." 

"Well,    we    shall    have    a    glorious    opportunity    to- 


THE   DISOWNED.  277 

morro-vv  night!  "  answered  the  first  speaker;  "that  is,  if 
it  does  not  rain  so  infernally  as  it  does  tliis  night:  but 
we  shall  have  a  watch  of  many  hours,  I  daresay." 

"  Tliat  matters  hut  little,"  replied  the  other  conspira- 
tor; "nor  even  if,  night  after  night,  the  same  vigil 
is  renewed  and  haffied,  so  that  it  bring  its  rev/ard  at 
last." 

"  Eight,"  quoth  the  first;  "  I  long  to  be  at  it!  —  ugh! 
ugh !  —  what  a  confounded  cough  I  have :  it  Avill  be  my 
death  soon,  I'm  thinking." 

"If  so,"  said  the  other,  with  a  solemnity  which 
seemed  ludicrously  horrible,  from  the  strange  contrast 
of  the  words  and  object,  — "  die  at  least  with  the  sanctity 
of  a  brave  and  noble  deed  iipon  your  conscience  and  your 
name !  " 

"  Ugh!  ugh!  —  I  am  but  a  man  of  color,  but  I  am  a 
patriot  for  all  that,  my  good  friend!  See,  the  violence 
of  the  rain  has  ceased;  we  will  proceed:  "  and  with  these 
words  the  worthy  pair  left  the  place  to  darkness  and  Mr. 
BroAvn. 

"  0  Lord!  "  said  the  latter,  stepping  forth,  and  throw- 
ing, as  it  were,  in  that  exclamation,  a  whole  weight  of 
suffocating  emotion  from  his  chest,  — "  what  bloody 
miscreants!  Murder  his  Majesty's  ministers!  —  'shoot 
them  like  pigeons !  '  —  '  d — d  pretty  shot !  '  indeed. 
O  Lord!  what  ivould  the  late  Lady  Waddilove,  who 
always  hated  even  the  Whigs  so  cordially,  say,  if  she 
were  alive !  But  how  providential  that  I  should  have 
been  here;  who  knows  but  I  may  save  the  lives  of  the 
whole  administration,  and  get  a  pension,  or  a  little  place 
in  the  post-office !  I  '11  go  to  the  prime  minister  directly, 
—  this  very  minute!  Pish!  i'n't  you  right  now,  you 
cursed  thing?"  upbraiding  the  umbrella,  which,  half- 
right  and  half-wrong,  seemed  endued  with  an  instinc- 


278    ^  THE    DISOWNED. 

tive  obstinacy   for  the  sole   purpose    of  tormenting  its 
owner. 

However,  losing  this  petty  affliction  in  the  greatness 
of  his  present  determination,  Mr.  Brown  issued  out  of 
his  lair,  and  hastened  to  put  his  benevolent  and  loyal 
intentions  into  effect. 


THE   DISOWNED.  279 


CHAPTER   LXXXV. 

When  laurelled  ruffians  die,  the  Heaven  and  Earth, 
And  the  deep  Air  give  warning.     Shall  the  good 
Perish  and  not  a  sign  1 

Anon. 

It  was  the  evening  after  the  event  recorded  in  our  last 
chapter;  all  was  hushed  and  dark  in  the  room  where 
Mordaunt  sat  alone,  the  low  and  falling  embers  burned 
dull  in  the  grate,  and  through  the  unclosed  windows 
the  high  stars  rode  pale  and  wan  in  their  career.  The 
room,  situated  at  the  back  of  the  house,  looked  over  a 
small  garden,  where  the  sickly  and  hoar  shrubs,  over-  ' 
shadowed  by  a  few  wintry  poplars  and  grim  firs,  sad- 
dened in  the  dense  atmosphere  of  fog  and  smoke  which 
broods  over  our  island  city.  An  air  of  gloom  hung 
comfortless  and  chilling  over  the  whole  scene  externally 
and  within.  The  room  itself  was  large  and  old,  and  its 
far  extremities,  mantled  as  they  were  with  dusk  and 
shadow,  impressed  upon  the  mind  that  involuntary  and 
vague  sensation,  not  altogether  unmixed  with  awe,  which 
the  eye,  resting  upon  a  view  that  it  can  but  dimly  and 
confusedly  define,  so  frequently  communicates  to  the 
heart.  There  was  a  strange  oppression  at  INIordaunt's 
breast,  with  which  he  in  vain  endeavored  to  contend. 
Ever  and  anon  an  icy  but  passing  chill,  like  the  shivers 
of  a  fever,  shot  through  his  veins,  and  a  wild  and  un- 
earthly and  objectless  awe  stirred  through  his  hair,  and 
his  eyes  filled  with  a  glassy  and  cold  dew,  and  sought, 
as   by  a    self -impulse,  the   shadowy   and   unpenetrated 


280  THE   DISOWNED. 

places  around,  wliich  momently  grew  darker  and  darker. 
Little  addicted  by  Lis  peculiar  habits  to  an  over-in- 
dulgence of  the  imagination,  and  still  less  accustomed 
to  those  absolute  conquests  of  the  physical  frame  over 
the  mental,  which  seem  the  usual  sources  of  that  feeling 
we  call  presentiment,  Mordaunt  rose,  and  walking  to 
and  fro  along  the  room,  endeavored  by  the  exercise  to 
restore  to  his  veins  their  wonted  and  healthful  circula- 
tion. It  was  past  the  hour  in  which  his  daugh'er  retired 
to  rest;  but  he  was  often  accustomed  to  steal  up  to  her 
chamber,  and  watch  her  in  her  young  slumbers ;  and  he 
felt  this  night  a  more  than  usual  desire  to  perform  that 
office  of  love:  so  he  left  the  room  and  ascended  the 
stairs.  It  was  a  large  old  house  that  he  tenanted  The 
staircase  was  broad,  and  lighted  from  above  by  a  glass 
dome;  and  as  he  slowlj'-  ascended,  and  the  stars  gleamed 
down  still  and  ghastly  upon  his  steps,  he  fancied  —  l)ut 
he  knew  not  why  —  that  there  Avas  an  omen  in  tlieir 
gleam.  He  entered  the  young  Isabel's  chamber:  there 
was  a  light  burning  within ;  he  stole  to  her  bed,  and, 
putting  aside  the  curtain,  felt,  as  he  looked  upon  her 
peaceful  and  pure  beauty,  a  cheering  warmth  gather 
roimd  his  heart.  How  lovely  is  the  sleep  of  childhood! 
What  worlds  of  sweet,  yet  not  utterly  sweet  associations, 
does  it  not  mingle  Avith  the  envy  of  our  gaze!  "What 
thoughts  and  hopes  and  cares  and  forebodings  does  it 
not  excite!  There  lie  in  that  yet  ungrieved  and  un- 
sullied heart  what  vmnumbered  sources  of  emotion  !  what 
deep  fountains  of  passion  and  woe!  Alas!  whatever 
be  its  earlier  triumphs,  the  victim  must  fall  at  last!  As 
the  hart  which  the  jackals  pursue,  the  moment  its  race 
is  begun,  the  human  prey  is  foredoomed  for  destruction, 
not  by  the  sinr/le  sorrow,  but  the  thotisand  cares :  it 
may  baffle  one  race  of  pursuers,  but  a  new  succeeds;  as 


THE    DISOWNED.  281 

fast  as  some  drop  ofi"  exhausted,  others  spring  up  to  re- 
new and  to  perpetuate  the  chase,  and  the  fated  though 
flying  victim  never  escapes,  but  in  death.  There  was  a 
faint  smile  upon  his  daughter's  lip,  as  Mordaunt  bent 
down  to  kiss  it;  the  dark  lash  rested  on  the  snowy  lid, 
—  ah,  that  tears  had  no  well  beneath  its  surface  !  — and 
her  breath  stole  from  her  rich  lips  with  so  regular  and 
calm  a  motion  that,  like  the  "  forest  leaves,"  it  "  seemed 
stirred  with  prayer  !  "  ^  One  arm  lay  over  the  coverlid, 
the  other  pillowed  her  head,  in  the  unrivalled  grace 
of  infancy. 

Mordaunt  stooped  once  more,  for  his  heart  filled  as  he 
gazed  upon  his  child,  to  kiss  her  cheek  again,  and  to 
mingle  a  blessing  with  the  kiss.  When  he  rose,  upon 
that  fair,  smooth  face  there  was  one  bright  and  glisten- 
ing drop;  and  Isabel  stirred  in  sleep,  and,  as  if  suddenly 
vexed  by  some  painful  dream,  she  sighed  deeply  as  sh^ 
stirred.  It  was  the  last  time  that  the  cheek  of  the 
young  and  predestined  orphan  was  ever  pressed  by  a 
father's  kiss,  or  moistened  by  a  father's  tear!  He  left 
the  room  silently;  no  sooner  had  he  left  it,  than,  as  if 
without  the  precincts  of  some  charmed  and  preserving 
circle,  the  chill  and  presentiment  at  his  heart  returned. 
There  is  a  feeling  which  perhaps  all  have  in  a  momen- 
tary hypochondria  felt  at  times ;  it  is  a  strong  and  shud- 
dering impression  which  Coleridge  has  embodied  in  his 
OAvn  dark  and  supernatural  verse,  that  something  not 
of  earth  is  behind  ns,  —  that  if  we  turned  our  gaze  back- 
ward we  should  behold  that  which  would  make  the 
heart  as  a  bolt  of  ice,  and  the  eye  shrivel  and  parch 
within  its  socket.  And  so  intense  is  the  fancy  that, 
vjhen  we  turn,  and  all  is  void,  from  that  very  void  we 

1  And  yet  the  forest  leaves  seemed  stirred  with  prayer.  — 
Byron. 


282  THE   DISOWNED. 

could  shape  a  spectre,  as  fearful  as  the  image  our  terror 
had  forcdrawn!  Somewhat  such  feeling  had  Mordaunt 
now,  as  his  steps  sounded  hollow  and  echoless  on  the 
stairs,  and  the  stars  filled  the  air  around  him  with  their 
shadowy  and  solemn  presence.  Breaking  by  a  violent 
effort  from  a  spell  of  which  he  felt  that  a  frame  some- 
what overtasked  of  late  Avas  the  real  enchanter,  he  turned 
once  more  into  the  room  which  he  had  left  to  visit 
Isabel.  He  had  pledged  his  personal  attendance  at  an 
important  motion  in  the  House  of  Commons  for  that 
night,  and  some  political  papers  were  left  upon  his 
table  which  he  had  promised  to  give  to  one  of  the  mem- 
bers of  his  party.  He  entered  the  room,  purposing  to 
stay  only  a  minute:  an  hour  passed  before  he  left  it; 
and  his  servant  afterwards  observed  that,  on  giving  him 
some  orders  as  he  passed  through  the  hall  to  the  car- 
riage, his  cheek  was  as  white  as  marble,  and  that  his 
step,  usually  so  haughty  and  firm,  reeled  and  trembled, 
like  a  fainting  man's  dark  and  inexplicable  fate! 
Weaver  of  Avild  contrasts,  demon  of  this  hoary  and 
old  world,  that  movest  through  it,  as  a  spirit  moveth 
over  the  waters,  filling  the  depths  of  things  with  a 
solemn  mystery  and  an  everlasting  change  !  thou  sweep- 
est  over  our  graves,  and  joy  is  born  from  the  ashes :  thou 
sweepest  over  joy,  and  lo,  it  is  a  grave!  Engine  and 
tool  of  the  Almighty,  whose  years  cannot  fade,  thou 
cliangest  the  earth  as  a  garment,  and  as  a  vesture  it  is 
changed;  thou  makest  it  one  vast  sepulchre  and  womb 
united,  swallowing  and  creating  life,  and  reproducing, 
over  and  over,  from  age  to  age,  from  the  birth  of  creation 
to  the  creation's  doom,  the  same  dust  and  atoms  which 
were  our  fathers,  and  which  are  the  sole  heir-looms  that 
through  countless  generations  they  bequeath  and  perpet- 
uate to  their  sons. 


THE   DISOWNED.  283 


CHAPTER   LXXXVI. 

Metliinks,  before  the  issue  of  our  fate, 
A  spirit  moves  witliin  us,  and  impels 
The  passion  of  a  prophet  to  our  lips. 

Anon. 

O  vittE  philosophia  dux,  virtutis  indagatrix !  —  Cic.i 

Upon  leaving  the  House  of  Commons,  Mordaunt  was 
<iccosted  by  Lord  Ulswater,  who  had  just  taken  his  seat 
in  the  Upper  House.  Whatever  abstraction  or  whatever 
weakness  Mordaunt  might  have  manifested  before  he 
had  left  his  home,  he  had  now  entirely  conquered  both; 
and  it  was  with  his  usual  collected  address  that  he  re- 
plied to  Lord  Ulswater's  salutations,  and  congratulated 
him  on  his  change  of  name  and  accession  of  honors. 

It  was  a  night  of  uncommon  calm  and  beauty;  and 
although  the  moon  was  not  visible,  the  frosty  and  clear 
sky,  "  clad  in  the  lustre  of  its  thousand  stars,"  ^  seemed 
scarcely  to  mourn  either  the  hallowing  light,  or  the 
breathing  poesy  of  her  presence ;  and  when  Lord  Uls- 
water proposed  that  Mordaunt  should  dismiss  his  car- 
riage, and  that  they  should  Avalk  home,  Algernon  con- 
sented not  unwillingly  to  the  proposal.  He  felt,  indeed, 
an  unwonted  relief  in  companionship;  and  the  still  air 
and  the  deep  heavens  seemed  to  avoo  him  from  more 
unwelcome  thoughts,  as  with  a  softening  and  a  sister's 
love. 

1  0  Philosophy,  conductress  of  life,  —  searcher  after  virtue  ! 

2  Marlow 


284  THE   DISOWNED. 

"  Let  ns,  before  we  return  home,"  said  Lord  Ulswatcr, 
"stroll  for  a  few  moments  towards  the  bridge;  I  love 
looking  at  the  river  on  a  night  like  tliis." 

Whoever  inquires  into  human  circumstances  will  ho 
struck  to  find  how  invariably  a  latent  current  of  fatality 
appears  to  pervade  them.  It  is  the  turn  of  the  atom  in 
the  scale  which  makes  our  safety  or  our  peril,  our  glory 
or  our  shame;  raises  us  to  the  throne,  or  sinks  us  to 
the  grave.  A  secret  voice  at  Mordaunt's  heart  prompted 
him  to  dissent  from  this  proposal,  trifling  as  it  seemed, 
and  welcome  as  it  was  to  his  present  and  peculiar  mood; 
he  resisted  the  voice;  the  moment  passed  away,  and  the 
last  seal  was  set  upon  his  doom,  —  they  moved  onward 
towards  the  bridge.  At  first,  both  were  silent,  for  Lord 
Ulswater  used  the  ordinary  privilege  of  a  lover,  and  was 
absent  and  absorbed,  and  liis  companion  was  never  the 
first  to  Ijreak  a  taciturnity  natural  to  his  habits.  At 
last  Lord  Ulswater  said,  "  I  rejoice  that  you  are  now  in 
the  sphere  of  action  most  likely  to  display  your  talents, 
—  you  have  not  spoken  yet,  I  think;  indeed,  there 
has  been  no  fitting  opportunity,  but  you  will  soon,  I 
trust. " 

"I  know  not,"  said  Mordaunt,  with  a  melancholy 
smile,  "  whether  you  judge  rightly  in  thinking  the 
sphere  of  political  exertion  one  the  most  calculated 
for  me;  but  I  feel  at  my  heart  a  foreboding  that  my 
planet  is  not  fated  to  shine  in  any  earthly  sphere.  Sor- 
row and  misfortune  have  dimmed  it  in  its  birth,  and 
now  it  is  waning  towards  its  decline." 

"  Its  decline!  "  repeated  his  companion,  —  "  no,  rather 
its  meridian.  You  are  in  the  vigor  of  your  years,  the 
noon  of  your  prosperity,  the  height  of  your  intellect  and 
knowledge ;  you  require  only  an  effort  to  add  to  these 
blessinffs  the  most  lastin<i  of  all,  —  fame  !  " 


THE   DISOWNED.  285 

"Well,"  said  Mordamit,  and  a  momentary  light 
flashed  over  his  countenance,  "  the  effort  zfi/Z  be  made. 
I  do  not  pretend  not  to  have  felt  ambition.  No  man 
should  make  it  his  boast,  for  it  often  gives  to  our  frail 
and  earth-bound  virtue  both  its  weapon  and  its  wings: 
but  when  the  soil  is  exhausted,  its  produce  fails;  and 
when  we  have  forced  our  hearts  to  too  great  an  abun- 
dance, whether  it  be  of  flowers  that  perish,  or  of  grain 
that  endures,  the  seeds  of  after  hope  bring  forth  but  a 
languid  and  scanty  harvest.  My  earliest  idol  was  am- 
bition; but  then  came  others,  —  love  and  knowledge, 
and  afterwards  the  desire  to  bless.  That  desire  you  may 
term  ambition;  but  we  will  suppose  them  separate  pas- 
sions; for  by  the  latter  T  would  signify  the  thirst  for 
glory,  either  in  evil  or  in  good;  and  the  former  teaches 
us,  though  by  little  and  little,  to  gain  its  object,  no  less 
in  secrecy  than  for  applause;  and  wisdom,  which  opens 
to  us  a  world,  vast,  but  hidden  from  the  crowd,  estab- 
lishes also  over  that  world  an  arbiter  of  its  own,  so  that 
its  disciples  grow  proud,  and  communing  with  their  own 
hearts,  care  for  no  louder  judgment  than  the  still  voice 
within.  It  is  thus  that  indifference,  not  to  the  welfare, 
but  to  the  report  of  others,  grows  over  us;  and  often, 
while  we  are  the  most  ardent  in  their  cause,  we  are  the 
least  anxious  for  their  esteem. " 

"  And  yet,"  said  Lord  Ulswater,  "  I  have  thought  the 
passion  for  esteem  is  the  best  guarantee  for  deserving  it." 

"  Nor  without  justice,  —  other  passions  may  supply  its 
place ,  and  produce  the  same  effects ;  but  the  love  of  true 
glory  is  the  most  legitimate  agent  of  extensive  good,  and 
you  do  right  to  worship  and  enshrine  it.  For  me  it  is 
dead:  it  survived  — ay,  the  truth  shall  out!  —  poverty, 
want,  disappointment,  baffled  aspirations,  — all,  all,  but 
the  deadness,  the  lethargy  of  regret.      When  no  one  was 


286  THE    DISOWNED. 

left  upon  this  altered  earth  to  animate  its  efforts,  to 
smile  upon  its  success,  then  the  last  spark  quivered  and 
died ;  and  —  and  —  l)ut  forgive  me  :  on  tliis  subject  I  am 
not  often  wont  to  wander.  I  would  say  tliat  ambition 
is  for  me  no  more,  —  not  so  are  its  effects;  but  the  hope 
of  serving  that  race  whom  I  have  loved  as  brothers,  but 
who  have  never  known  me ;  who,  by  the  exterior  "  (and 
here  something  bitter  mingled  with  his  voice),  "pass 
sentence  on  the  heart;  in  whose  eyes  I  am  only  the  cold, 
the  wayward,  the  haughty,  the  morose,  —  the  hope  of 
serving  them  is  to  me,  now,  a  far  stronger  passion  than 
ambition  was  heretofore ;  and  whatever  for  that  end  the 
love  of  fame  would  have  dictated,  the  love  of  mankind 
will  teach  me  still  more  ardently  to  perform." 

They  were  now  upon  the  bridge.  Pausing,  they 
leaned  over,  and  looked  along  the  scene  before  them. 
Dark  and  hushed,  the  river  flowed  sullenly  on,  save 
where  the  reflected  stars  made  a  tremulous  and  broken 
beam  on  the  black  surface  of  the  water,  or  the  lights  of 
the  vast  city  which  lay  in  shadow  on  its  banks  scat- 
tered, at  capricious  intervals,  a  pale  but  unpiercing  wan- 
ness, rather  than  lustre,  along  the  tide;  or  save  where 
the  stillness  was  occasionally  broken  by  the  faint  oar  of 
the  boatman,  or  the  call  of  his  rude  voice,  mellowed 
almost  into  music  by  distance  and  the  element. 

But  beliind  them  as  tliey  leaned,  the  feet  of  passen- 
gers, on  the  great  thoroughfare,  passed  not  oft,  —  but 
quick;  and  that  sound,  the  commonest  of  earth's,  made 
rarer  and  rarer  by  the  advancing  night,  contrasted,  rather 
than  destroyed  the  quiet  of  the  heaven  and  the  solemnity 
of  tlie  silent  stars. 

"  It  is  an  old,  but  a  just  comparison,"  said  Mordaunt's 
companion,  "which  has  likened  life  to  a  river  such  as 
we  now  survey,  gliding  alternately  in  light  or  in  dark- 


THE    DISOWNED,  2S7 

ness,  in  sunshine  or  in  storm,  to  that  great  ocean  in 
which  all  waters  meet." 

"If,"  said  Algernon,  with  his  nsual  thoughtful  and 
pensive  smile,  "  we  may  be  allowed  to  vary  that  simile, 
I  would,  separating  the  universal  and  eternal  course  of 
destiny  from  the  fleeting  generations  of  human  life,  com- 
pare the  river  before  us  to  that  course,  and  not  it,  but 
the  city  scattered  on  its  banks,  to  the  varieties  and  muta- 
bility of  life.  There  (in  the  latter),  crowded  together  in 
the  great  chaos  of  social  union,  we  herd  in  the  night  of 
ages,  flinging  the  little  lustre  of  our  dim  lights  over  the 
sullen  tide  which  rolls  beside  us,  —  seeing  the  tremulous 
ray  glitter  on  the  surface,  only  to  show  us  how  profound 
is  the  gloom  which  it  cannot  break,  and  the  depths 
which  it  is  too  faint  to  pierce.  There  Crime  stalks,  and 
Woe  hushes  her  moan,  and  Poverty  couches,  and  Wealth 
riots,  —  and  Death,  in  all  and  each,  is  at  his  silent 
work.  But  the  stream  of  fate,  unconscious  of  our  changes 
and  decay,  glides  on  to  its  engulfing  bourn ;  and  while 
it  mirrors  the  faintest  smile  or  the  lightest  frown  of 
Heaven,  beholds,  without  a  change  upon  its  surface,  the 
generations  of  earth  perish,  and  be  renewed,  along  its 
banks! " 

There  was  a  pause :  and,  by  an  involuntary  and  natural 
impulse,  they  turned  from  the  waves  beneath,  to  the 
heaven,  which,  in  its  breathing  contrast,  spread  all  elo- 
quently, yet  hushed  above.  They  looked  upon  the  liv- 
ing and  intense  stars,  and  felt  palpably  at  their  hearts 
that  spell  —  wild,  but  mute  —  which  nothing  on  or  of 
earth  can  inspire;  that  pining  of  the  imprisoned  soul, 
that  longing  after  the  immortality  on  high,  which  is, 
perhaps,  no  imaginary  type  of  the  immortality  ourselves 
are  heirs  to. 

"It  is  on  such  nights  as  these,"  said  Mordaunt,  who 


288  THE   DISOWNED. 

first  broke  the  silence,  but  with  a  low  and  soft  voice, 
"  that  we  are  tempted  to  believe  that  in  Plato's  divine 
fancy  there  is  as  divine  a  truth ,  —  that  '  our  souls  are  in- 
deed of  the  same  essence  as  the  stars,'  and  that  the  mys- 
terious yearning,  the  impatient  wish  which  swells  and 
soars  within  us  to  mingle  with  their  glory,  is  but  the 
instinctive  and  natural  longing  to  reunite  the  divided 
2)ortion  of  an  immortal  spirit,  stored  in  these  cells  of 
clay,  with  the  original  lustre  of  the  heavenly  and  burn- 
ing whole  !  " 

"  And  hence  then,"  said  his  companion,  pursuing 
the  idea,  "  might  we  also  believe  in  that  wondrous  and 
wild  influence  Avhich  the  stars  have  been  fabled  to  exer- 
cise over  our  fate ;  hence  might  we  shape  a  visionary 
clew  to  their  imagined  power  over  our  birth,  our  desti- 
nies, and  our  death." 

"  Perhaps,"  rejoined  Mordaunt,  —  and  Lord  Ulswater 
has  since  said  that  his  countenance,  as  he  spoke,  wore  an 
awful  and  strange  aspect  which  lived  long  and  long 
afterwards  in  the  memory  of  his  companion,  — "  perhaps 
they  are  tokens  and  signs  between  the  soul  and  the 
things  of  Heaven  which  do  not  wholly  shame  the  doctrine 
of  him  ^  from  whose  bright  wells  Plato  drew  (while  he 
colored  with  his  own  gorgeous  errors)  the  waters  of  his 
sublime  lore."  As  Mordaunt  thus  spoke,  his  voice 
changed:  he  paused  abruptly,  and  pointing  to  a  distant 
quarter  of  the  heavens,  said,  — 

"Look  yonder;  do  you  see,  in  the  far  horizon,  one 
large  and  solitary  star,  that,  at  this  very  moment,  seems 
to  wax  pale  and  paler  as  my  hand  points  to  it  ?  " 

"  I  see  it,  —  it  shrinks  and  soars  while  we  gaze  into 
the  farther  depths  of  heaven,  as  if  it  were  seeking  to  rise 
to  some  higher  orbit. " 

1  Socrates,  who  taught  the  belief  in  omens. 


THE   DISOWNED.  289 

"And  do  you  see,"  rejoined  Mordaunt,  "yon  fleecy, 
but  dusk  cloud,  which  sweeps  slowly  along  the  sky 
towards  it  ?  What  shape  does  that  cloud  wear  to  your 
eyes  1  " 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  answered  Lord  Ulswater, "  to  assume 
the  exact  semblance  of  a  funeral  procession,  —  the  human 
shape  appears  to  me  as  distinctly  moulded  in  the  thin 
vapors  as  in  ourselves;  nor  would  it  perhaps  ask  too 
great  indulgence  from  our  fancy,  to  image  amongst  the 
darker  forms  in  the  centre  of  the  cloud  one  bearing  the 
very  appearance  of  a  bier,  —  the  plume  and  the  capari- 
son and  the  steeds  and  the  mourners!  Still,  as  I  look, 
the  likeness  seems  to  me  to  increase !  " 

"Strange,"  said  Mordaunt,  musingly,  "how  strange 
is  this  thing  which  Ave  call  the  mind!  Strange  that 
the  dreams  and  superstitions  of  childhood  should  cling 
to  it  with  so  inseparable  and  fond  a  strength!  I  remem- 
ber, years  since,  that  I  was  aff'ected  even  as  I  am  now,  to 
a  degree  which  wiser  men  might  shrink  to  confess,  upon 
gazing  on  a  cloud  exactly  similar  to  that  which  at  this 
instant  we  behold.  But  see,  —  that  cloud  has  passed 
over  the  star;  and  now,  as  it  rolls  away,  look,  the  star 
itself  has  vanished  into  the  heavens!  " 

"  But  I  fear,"  answered  Lord  Ulswater,  with  a  slight 
smile,  "  that  we  can  deduce  no  omen  either  from  the 
cloud  or  the  star:  would,  indeed,  that  nature  were  more 
visibly  knit  with  our  individual  existence !  Would  that 
in  the  heavens  there  we7'e  a  book,  and  in  the  waves  a 
voice,  and  on  the  earth  a  token  of  the  mysteries  and 
enigmas  of  our  fate !  " 

"  And  yet,"  said  Mordaunt,  slowly,  as  his  mind  grad- 
ually rose  from  its  dream-like  oppression  to  its  wonted 
and  healthful  tone, — "yet,  in  truth,  we  want  neither 
sign  nor  omen  from  other  worlds  to  teach  us  all  that  it 

VOL.  II.  —  19 


290  THE   DISOWNED. 

is  the  end  of  existence  to  fulfil  in  this;  and  that  seems 
to  me  a  far  less  exalted  wisdom  which  enables  us  to  solve 
the  riddles,  than  that  which  elevates  us  above  the 
chances  of  the  future. " 

"But  can  we  be  placed  above  those  chances, —  can  we 
become  independent  of  that  fate  to  which  the  ancients 
taught  that  even  their  deities  were  submitted  ?  " 

"  Let  us  not  so  wrong  the  ancients,"  answered  Mor- 
daunt;  "  their  poets  taught  it,  not  their  philosophers. 
Would  not  virtue  be  a  dream,  a  mockery  indeed,  if  it 
were,  like  the  herb  of  the  field,  a  thing  of  blight  and 
change,  of  withering  and  renewal,  a  minion  of  the  sun- 
beam and  the  cloud?  Shall  calamity  deject  it?  Shall 
prosperity  pollute  ?  Then,  let  it  not  be  the  object  of  our 
aspiration,  but  the  byword  of  our  contempt.  Xo :  let 
us  rather  believe,  with  the  great  of  old,  that  when  it  is 
based  on  wisdom,  it  is  throned  above  change  and  chance, 
throned  above  the  things  of  a  petty  and  sordid  world, 
throned  above  the  Olyujpus  of  the  heathen,  throned 
above  the  stars  which  fade,  and  the  moon  which  waneth 
in  her  course!  Shall  we  believe  less  of  the  divinity  of 
virtue  than  an  Athenian  sage  1  Shall  tve,  to  whose  eyes 
have  been  revealed  without  a  cloud  the  blaze  and  the 
glory  of  Heaven,  make  virtue  a  slave  to  those  chains  of 
earth  which  the  Pagan  subjected  to  her  feet?  Ikit  if  by 
Jier  we  can  trample  on  the  ills  of  life,  are  we  not,  a 
hundredfold  more,  by  her,  the  vanquishers  of  death? 
All  creation  lies  before  us;  shall  we  cling  to  a  grain  of 
dust?  All  immortality  is  our  heritage;  shall  we  gasp 
and  sicken  for  a  moment's  breath?  What  if  we  perish 
within  an  hour ;  what  if  already  the  black  cloud  lowers 
over  us;  what  if  from  our  hopes  and  projects,  and  the 
fresh-woven  ties  which  we  have  knit  around  our  life,  we 
are    abruptly    torn?     Sliall   wo  be  the  creatures  or   the 


THE   DISOWNED.  291 

conquerors  of  fate  ?  Shall  we  be  the  exiled  from  a  home, 
or  the  escaped  from  a  dungeon  1  Are  we  not  as  birds 
which  look  into  the  great  air  only  through  a  barred  cage  ? 
Shall  we  shrink  and  mourn  when  the  cage  is  shattered, 
and  all  space  spreads  around  us,  — our  element  and  our 
empire?  No;  it  was  not  for  this  tliat,  in  an  elder  day, 
virtue  and  valor  received  but  a  common  name  !  The 
soul,  into  which  that  s-pivit  has  breathed  its  glory,  is  not 
only  above  fate,  —  it  profits  by  her  assaults  !  Attempt 
to  weaken  it,  and  you  nerve  it  with  a  new  strength;  to 
wound  it,  and  you  render  it  more  invulnerable ;  to  de- 
stroy it,  and  you  make  it  immortal!  This,  indeed,  is 
the  sovereign  whose  realm  every  calamity  increases,  — 
the  hero  whose  triumph  every  invasion  augments  !  — 
standing  on  the  last  sands  of  life,  and  encircled  by  the 
advancing  waters  of  darkness  and  eternity,  it  becomes, 
in  its  expiring  effort,  doubly  the  victor  and  the  king!  " 

Impressed,  by  the  fervor  of  his  companion,  with  a 
sympathy  almost  approaching  to  awe,  Lord  Ulswater 
pressed  Mordaunt's  hand,  but  offered  no  reply;  and 
both,  excited  by  the  high  theme  of  their  conversation, 
and  the  thoughts  which  it  produced,  moved  in  silence 
from  their  post,  and  walked  slowly  homeward. 


292  THE    DISOWNED. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVII. 

Is  it  possiV>le  ? 
Is 't  so  ?     I  can  no  longer  wliat  I  ivoitld  : 
No  longer  draw  back  at  my  liking  !     I 
Must  do  the  deed  because  I  thought  of  it. 

What  is  thy  enterprise  —  thy  aim,  thy  object  ? 
Hast  honestly  confessed  it  to  thyself  ? 

O  bloody,  frightful  deed  ! 

Was  that  my  purpose  when  we  parted  ? 
O  God  of  Justice ! 

Coleridge's  Wallenstein. 

We  need  scarcely  say  that  one  of  the  persons  overheard 
by  Mr.  Brown  was  Wolfe,  and  the  peculiar  tone  of 
oratorical  exaggeration,  characteristic  of  the  man,  has 
already  informed  the  reader  with  which  of  the  two  he 
is  identified. 

On  the  evening  after  the  conversation,  —  the  evening 
fixed  for  the  desperate  design  on  which  he  had  set  the 
last  hazard  of  his  life, —  the  republican,  parting  from  the 
companions  with  whom  he  had  passed  the  day,  returned 
home  to  compose  the  fever  of  his  excited  thouglits,  and 
have  a  brief  hour  of  solitary  meditation,  previous  to  the 
committal  of  that  act  which  he  knew  must  be  his  imme- 
diate passport  to  the  jail  and  the  gibbet.  On  entering 
his  squalid  and  miserable  home,  the  woman  of  the  house, 
a  blear-eyed  and  filthy  hag,  who  was  holding  to  her  with- 
ered breast  an  infant,  which,  even  in  sucking  the  stream 
that  nourished  its  tainted  existence,   betrayed  upon  its 


THE   DISOWNED.  293 

haggard  countenance  the  polluted  nature  of  the  mother's 
milk,  from  which  it  drew  at  once  the  support  of  life  and 
the  seeds  of  death,  —  this  woman ,  meeting  him  in  the 
narrow  passage,  arrested  his  steps,  to  acquamt  him  that 
a  gentleman  had  that  day  called  upon  him,  and  left  a 
letter  in  his  room,  with  strict  charge  of  care  and  speed 
in  its  delivery.  The  visitor  had  not,  however,  commu- 
nicated his  name,  though  the  curiosity  excited  by  his 
mien  and  dress  had  prompted  the  crone  particularly  to 
demand  it. 

Little  affected  by  this  incident,  which  to  the  hostess 
seemed  no  unimportant  event,  Wolfe  pushed  the  woman 
aside,  with  an  impatient  gesture,  and,  scarcely  conscious 
of  the  abuse  which  followed  this  motion,  hastened  up 
the  sordid  stairs  to  his  apartment.  He  sat  himself 
down  upon  the  foot  of  his  bed,  and,  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands,  surrendered  his  mind  to  the  tide  of  con- 
tending emotions  which  rushed  upon  it. 

What  was  he  about  to  commit  1  Murder !  —  murder 
in  its  coldest  and  most  premeditated  guise !  "  No !  "  cried 
he  aloud,  starting  from  the  bed,  and  dashing  his  clenched 
hand  violently  against  his  brow,  — "  no,  no,  no !  it  is 
not  murder,  it  is  justice !  Did  not  they,  the  hirelings  of 
oppression,  ride  over  their  crushed  and  shrieking  country- 
men, with  drawn  blades  and  murderous  hands  1  Was  I 
not  among  them  at  the  hour?  Did  I  not  with  these 
eyes  see  the  sword  uplifted,  and  the  smiter  strike  ? 
Were  not  my  ears  filled  with  the  groans  of  their  victims 
and  the  savage  yells  of  the  trampling  dastards !  —  yells 
wliich  rang  in  triumph  over  women  and  babes  and  wea- 
ponless men  1  And  shall  there  be  no  vengeance  ?  Yes, 
it  shall  fall ,  not  upon  the  tools,  but  the  master,  —  not 
upon  the  slaves,  but  the  despot!  Yet,"  said  he,  sud- 
denly pausing,  as  his  voice  sank  into  a  whisper,  "  assassi- 


294  THE   DISOWNED. 

nation!  — in  another  hour,  perhaps,  a  deed  irrevocable:  a 
seal  set  upon  two  souls,  —  the  victim's  and  the  judge's! 
Fetters  and  the  felon's  cord  before  me !  —  the  shouting 
mob,  the  stigma !  —  no,  no,  it  Avill  not  be  the  stigma ; 
the  gratitude,  ratlier,  of  future  times,  when  motives  will 
be  appreciated  and  party  hvished !  Have  I  not  wrestled 
with  wrong  from  my  birth  1  —  liave  I  not  rejected  all 
offers  from  the  men  of  an  impious  power  1  —  have  I  made 
a  moment's  truce  with  the  poor  man's  foe  1  —  have  I  not 
thrice  purchased  free  principles  with  an  imprisoned 
frame?  —  have  I  not  bartered  my  substance,  and  my 
hopes,  and  the  pleasures  of  this  world  for  my  unmoving, 
unswerving  faith  in  the  great  cause  ?  —  am  I  not  about  to 
crown  all  by  one  blow, —  one  lightning  blow,  destroying 
at  once  myself  and  a  criminal  too  mighty  for  the  law  ? 
And  shall  not  history  do  justice  to  this  devotediaess,  this 
absence  from  all  self,  hereafter,  —  and  admire,  even  if  it 
condemn  1  " 

Buoying  himself  with  these  reflections,  and  exciting  the 
jaded  current  of  his  designs  once  more  into  an  \mnatural 
impetus,  the  unhappy  man  ceased,  and  paced  with  rapid 
steps  the  narrow  limits  of  his  chamber;  his  eye  fell  upon 
something  bright,  which  glittered  amidst  the  darkening 
shadows  of  the  evening.  At  that  sight  his  heart  stood 
still  for  a  moment ;  it  was  the  weapon  of  intended  death ; 
he  took  it  up,  and  as  he  surveyed  the  shining  barrel,  and 
felt  the  lock,  a  more  settled  sternness  gathered  at  once 
over  his  fierce  features  and  stubborn  heart.  The  pistol 
had  been  bought  and  prepared  for  the  purpose  with  the 
utmost  nicety,  not  only  for  use  but  show ;  nor  is  it  unfre- 
quent  to  find  in  such  instances  of  premeditated  ferocity 
in  design,  a  fearful  kind  of  coxcombry  lavished  upon  the 
means. 

Striking  a  light,  "Wolfe  reseated  himself  deliberately, 


THE   DISOWNED.  295 

and  began,  with  the  utmost  care,  to  load  the  pistol. 
That  scene  would  not  have  been  an  unworthy  sketch  for 
those  painters  who  possess  the  power  of  giving  to  the 
low  a  force  almost  approaching  to  grandeur,  and  of  aug- 
menting the  terrible  by  a  mixture  of  the  ludicrous :  the 
sordid  chamber,  the  damp  walls,  the  high  window,  in 
which  a  handful  of  discolored  paper  supplied  the  absence 
of  many  a  pane ;  the  suigle  table  of  rough  oak,  the  rush- 
bottomed  and  broken  chair,  the  hearth  unconscious  of  a 
fire,  over  which  a  mean  bust  of  Milton  held  its  tutelary 
sway,  while  the  dull  rushlight  streamed  dimly  upon  the 
swarthy  and  strong  countenance  of  Wolfe  intent  upon 
his  work,  —  a  countenance  in  which  the  deliberate  calm- 
ness that  had  succeeded  the  late  struggle  of  feeling  had 
in  it  a  mingled  power  of  energy  and  haggardness  of  lan- 
guor (the  one  of  the  desperate  design,  the  other  of  the 
exhausted  body),  while  in  the  knit  brow  and  the  iron 
lines,  and  even  in  the  settled  ferocity  of  expression,  there 
was  yet  something  above  the  stamp  of  the  vulgar  ruffian, — 
something  eloquent  of  the  motive  no  less  than  the  deed, 
and  significant  of  that  not  ignoble  perversity  of  mind 
which  diminished  the  guilt  yet  increased  the  dreadness 
of  the  meditated  crime,  by  mocking  it  with  the  name  of 
virtue. 

As  he  had  finished  his  task,  and,  hiding  the  pistol  in 
his  person,  waited  for  the  hour  in  which  his  accomplice 
was  to  summon  him  to  the  fatal  deed,  he  perceived,  close 
by  him  on  the  table,  the  letter  which  the  woman  had 
spoken  of,  and  which,  till  then,  he  had,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  his  mind,  utterly  forgotten.  He  opened  it 
mechanically,  an  enclosure  fell  to  the  ground.  He 
picked  it  up,  it  was  a  bank-note  of  considerable  amount. 
The  lines  in  the  letter  were  few,  anonymous,  and  writ- 
ten in  a  hand  evidentl}'  disguised.      They  were  calculated 


296  THE   DISOWNED. 

peculiarly  to  toucli  the  republican,  and  reconcile  him  to 
the  gift.  In  them  the  writer  professed  to  be  actuated 
by  no  other  feeling  than  admiration  for  the  unliending 
integrity  which  had  characterized  Wolfe's  life,  and  the 
desire  that  sincerity  in  any  principles,  however  they 
might  differ  from,  his  own,  should  not  be  rewarded  only 
with  indigence  and  ruin. 

It  is  impossible  to  tell  how  far,  in  "Wolfe's  mind,  his 
own  desperate  fortunes  might  insensibly  have  mingled 
with  the  motives  which  led  him  to  his  present  design : 
certain  it  is,  that  wherever  the  future  is  hopeless,  the 
mind  is  easily  converted  from  the  rugged  to  the  criminal ; 
and  equally  certain  it  is  that  we  are  apt  to  justify  to  our- 
selves many  offences  in  a  cause  where  we  have  made 
great  sacrifices;  and,  perhaps,  if  this  unexpected  assist- 
ance had  come  to  Wolfe  a  short  time  before,  it  might, 
by  softening  his  heart,  and  reconciling  him  in  some  meas- 
ure to  fortune,  have  rendered  him  less  susceptible  to  the 
fierce  voice  of  political  hatred  and  the  instigation  of  his 
associates.  Nor  can  we,  who  are  removed  from  the 
temptations  of  the  poor,  —  temptations  to  Avliich  om-s  are 
as  breezes  which  woo  to  storms  which  "  tumble  towers, " 
—  nor  can  we  tell  how  far  the  acerbity  of  want  and  the 
absence  of  wholesome  sleep  and  the  contempt  of  the 
rich  and  the  rankling  memory  of  better  fortunes,  or 
even  the  mere  fierceness  which  absolute  hiuiger  produces 
in  the  humors  and  veins  of  all  that  hold  nature's  life,  — 
nor  can  we  tell  how  far  these  madden  the  temper,  which 
is  but  a  minion  of  the  body,  and  plead  in  irresistible 
excuse  for  the  crimes  which  our  wondering  virtue, 
haiighty  because  unsolicited,  stamps  with  its  loftiest 
reprobation ! 

The  cloud  fell  from  Wolfe's  lirow,  and  liis  eye  gazed, 
musingly  and  rapt,    upon    vacancy.     Steps  were    heard 


THE    DISOWNED.  297 

ascending,  —  the  voice  of  a  distant  clock  tolled  with  a 
distinctness  which  seemed  like  strokes  palpable  as  well 
as  audible  to  the  senses ;  and  as  the  door  opened,  and  his 
accomplice  entered,  Wolfe  muttered,  "  Too  late,  too 
late !  "  —  and  first  crushing  the  note  in  his  hands ,  then 
tore  it  into  atoms,  with  a  vehemence  which  astonished 
his  companion,  Avho,  however,  knew  not  its  value. 

"  Come, "  said  he,  stamping  his  foot  violently  iipon 
the  floor,  as  if  to  conquer  by  passion  all  internal  relent- 
ing, — "  come ,  my  friend,  not  another  moment  is  to  be 
lost;  let  us  hasten  to  our  holy  deed!  " 

"  I  trust, "  said  Wolfe's  companion,  when  they  were 
in  the  open  street,  "  that  we  shall  not  have  our  trouble 
in  vain ;  it  is  a  brave  night  for  it !  Davidson  wanted  us 
to  throw  grenades  into  the  ministers'  carriages,  as  the 
best  plan ;  and,  faith,  we  can  try  that  if  all  else  fails !  " 

Wolfe  remained  silent,  —  indeed  he  scarcely  heard  his 
companion ;  for  a  sullen  indifiference  to  all  things  around 
him  had  wrapped  his  spirit,  —  that  singular  feeling,  or 
rather  absence  from  feeling,  common  to  all  men,  when 
bound  on  some  exciting  action  upon  which  their  minds 
are  already  and  wholly  bent :  which  renders  them  utterly 
without  thought,  when  the  superficial  would  imagine 
they  were  the  most  full  of  it,  and  leads  them  to  the 
threshold  of  that  event  which  had  before  engrossed  all 
their  most  wakhig  and  fervid  contemplation  with  a  blind 
and  mechanical  unconsciousness  resembling  the  influence 
of  a  dream. 

They  arrived  at  the  place  they  had  selected  for  their 
station,  —  sometimes  walking  to  and  fro,  in  order  to 
escape  observation,  sometimes  hiding  behind  the  pillars 
of  a  neighboring  house,  they  awaited  the  coming  of  their 
victims.  The  time  passed  on,  —  the  streets  grew  more 
and  more  empty;  and  at  last  only  the  visitation  of  the 


298  THE    DISOWNED. 

watcliman,  or  the  occasional  steps  of  some  liomeward 
wanderer,    disturbed  the  solitude  of  their  station. 

At  last,  just  after  midnight,  two  men  were  seen  ap- 
proaching towards  them,  linked  arm  in  arm,  and  walking 
very  slowly. 

"Hist,  hist!"  whispered  "Wolfe's  comrade;  "there 
they  are  at  last,  —  is  your  pistol  cocked  1  " 

"  Ay, "  answered  Wolfe,  "  and  yours :  man ,  collect 
yourself,  —  your  hand  shakes. " 

"  It  is  with  the  cold  then, "  said  the  ruffian,  using  un- 
consciously a  celebrated  reply.  "  Let  us  withdraw  be- 
hind the  pillar." 

They  did  so,  —  the  figures  approached  them ;  the 
night,  though  star-lit,  was  not  sufficiently  clear  to  give 
the  assassins  more  than  the  outline  of  their  shapes  and 
the  characters  of  their  height  and  air. 

"  Which, "  said  Wolfe,  in  a  whisper,  —  for,  as  he  had 
said,  he  had  never  seen  either  of  his  intended  victims,  — 
"  which  is  vii/  prey  1  " 

"  Oh,  the  nearest  to  you, "  said  the  other,  with  trem- 
bhng  accents ;  "  you  know  his  d — d  proud  walk  and 
erect  head,  —  that  is  the  Avay  he  answers  the  people's 
petitions,  I  '11  be  sworn.  The  taller  and  farther  one, 
who  stoops  more  in  his  gait,   is  mine." 

The  strangers  were  now  at  hand. 

"  You  know  you  are  to  fire  first,  Wolfe, "  whispered 
the  nearer  ruffian,  whose  heart  had  long  failed  him,  and 
who  was  already  meditating  escape. 

"  But  are  you  sure,  —  quite  sure  of  the  identity  of  our 
prey  ?  "  said  Wolfe,  grasping  his  pistol. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  other;  and,  indeed,  the  air  of 
the  nearest  person  approaching  them  bore,  in  the  dis- 
tance, a  strong  resemblance  to  that  of  the  minister  it 
was  supposed  to   designate.     His    companion,    who   ap- 


THE   DISOWNED.  299 

peared  much  younger,  and  of  a  mien  equally  patrician, 
but  far  less  proud,  seemed  listening  to  the  supposed 
minister  with  the  most  earnest  attention.  Apparently 
occupied  with  their  conversation,  when  about  twenty 
yards  from  the  assassins,  they  stood  still  for  a  few 
moments. 

"  Stop,  Wolfe,  stop, "  said  the  republican's  accomplice, 
whose  Indian  complexion,  by  fear  and  the  wan  light  of 
the  lamps  and  skies,  faded  into  a  jaundiced  and  yellow 
hue,  while  the  bony  whiteness  of  his  teeth  made  a  grim 
contrast  with  the  glare  of  his  small,  black,  sparkling 
eyes.  "  Stop,  Wolfe,  —  hold  your  hand.  I  see  now 
that  I  was  mistaken;  the  farther  one  is  a  stranger  to 
me,  and  the  nearer  one  is  much  thinner  than  the 
minister :  pocket  your  pistol,  —  quick,  quick,  —  and  let 
us  withdraw." 

Wolfe  dropped  his  hand,  as  if  dissuaded  from  his 
design;  but,  as  he  looked  upon  the  trembling  frame 
and  chattering  teeth  of  his  terrified  accomplice,  a  sud- 
den and  not  unnatural  idea  darted  across  his  mind  that 
he  was  wilfully  deceived  by  the  fears  of  his  companion; 
and  that  the  strangers,  who  had  now  resumed  their 
way,  were  indeed  what  his  accomplice  had  first  re- 
ported them  to  be.  Filled  with  this  impression,  and 
acting  upon  the  momentary  spur  Avhich  it  gave,  the 
infatuated  and  fated  man  pushed  aside  his  comrade, 
with  a  muttered  oath  at  his  cowardice  and  treachery, 
and,  taking  a  sure  and  steady,  though  quick  aim  at  th< 
person,  who  was  now  just  within  the  certain  destructior 
of  his  hand,  he  fired  the  pistol.  The  stranger  reeled, 
and  fell  into  the  arms  of  his  companion. 

"  Hurrah !  "  cried  the  murderer,  leaping  from  his  hid- 
ing-place, and  walking  with  rapid  strides  towards  hi« 
victim, — "hurrah!  for  liberty  and  England!" 


300  THE    DISOWNED. 

Scarce  had  he  uttered  those  prostituted  names,  before 
the  triumph  of  misguided  zeal  faded  suddenly  and  for^ 
ever  from  his  brow  and  soul. 

The  wounded  man  leaned  back  in  the  supporting  arms 
of  his  chilled  and  horror-stricken  friend;  who,  kneeling 
on  one  knee  to  sui)port  him,  fixed  his  eager  eyes  upon 
the  pale  and  changing  countenance  of  his  burden,  un- 
conscious of  the  presence  of  the  assassin. 

"  Speak,  Mordaunt,  speak !  how  is  it  with  you  1  "  he 
said. 

Recalled  from  his  torpor  by  the  voice,  Mordaunt 
opened  his  eyes,  and  muttering,  "  My  child,  my  child, " 
sunk  back  again;  and  Lord  Ulswater  (for  it  was  he) 
felt,  by  his  increased  weight,  that  death  was  hastening 
rapidly  on  its  victim. 

"  Oh !  "  said  he,  bitterly,  and  recalling  their  last  con- 
versation, —  "  oh !  where,  where,  —  when  this  man,  the 
wise,  the  kind,  the  innocent,  almost  the  perfect,  falls 
thus  in  the  very  prime  of  existence,  by  a  sudden  blow 
from  an  obscure  hand:  unblessed  in  life,  inglorious  in 
death,  —  oh !  where,  where  is  this  boasted  triumph  of 
virtue,  or  where  is  its  reward  ?  " 

True  to  his  idol  at  the  last,  as  these  words  foil  upon 
his  dizzy  and  receding  senses,  Mordaunt  raised  himself 
by  a  sudden  though  momentary  exertion;  and,  fixing 
his  eyes  full  upon  Lord  Ulswater,  his  moving  lips  (for 
his  voice  was  already  gone)  seemed  to  shape  out  the 
answer,  "  It  is  here  /  " 

"With  this  last  effort,  and  with  an  expression  upon 
his  aspect  which  seemed  at  once  to  soften  and  t«>  hal- 
low the  haughty  and  calm  character  which  in  life  it 
was  Avont  to  bear,  Algernon  Mordaunt  fell  once  more 
back  into  the  arms  of  his  companion,  and  immediately 
expired. 


THE   DISO^VNED.  301 


CHAPTER   LXXXVIII. 

Come,  Death,  these  are  thy  victims,  and  the  axe 
Waits  those  who  claimed  tlie  chariot.  — Thus  we  count 
Our  treasures  in  the  dark,  and  wlien  the  light 
Breaks  on  the  cheated  eye,  we  find  the  coin 
Was  skulls. 

Yet  the  while 
Fate  links  strange  contrasts,  and  the  scaffold's  gloom 
Is  neighbored  by  the  altar. 

Anon. 

Whex  Crauiord's  guilt  and  imprisonment  became  known ; 
when  inquiry  developed,  day  after  day,  some  new  maze 
in  the  mighty  and  intricate  machinery  of  his  sublime 
dishonesty ;  when  houses  of  the  most  reputed  wealth  and 
profuse  splendor,  whose  affairs  Crauford  had  transacted, 
were  discovered  to  have  been  for  years  utterly  under- 
mined and  beggared,  and  only  supported  by  the  ex- 
traordinary genius  of  the  individual  by  Avhose  extraordi- 
nary guilt,  now  no  longer  concealed,  they  were  suddenly 
and  irretrievably  destroyed;  when  it  was  ascertained 
that,  for  nearly  the  fifth  part  of  a  century,  a  system  of 
villany  had  been  carried  on  throughout  Europe,  in  a 
thousand  different  relations,  Avithout  a  single  breath  of 
suspicion,  and  yet  which  a  single  breath  of  suspicion 
could  at  once  have  arrested  and  exposed ;  when  it  was 
proved  that  a  man  whose  luxury  had  exceeded  the  pomp 
of  princes,  and  whose  wealth  was  supposed  more  in- 
exhaustible than  the  enchanted  purse  of  Fortunatus,  had 
for  eighteen  years  been  a  penniless  pensioner  upon  tlie 
prosperity  of  others ;  when  the  long  scroll  of  this  almost 


302  THE    DISOWNED. 

incredible  fraud  was  slowly,  piece  by  piece,  unrolled 
before  the  terrified  curiosity  of  the  public,  —  an  invad- 
ing army  at  the  Temple  gates  could  scarcely  have  ex- 
cited such  universal  consternation  and  dismay. 

The  mob,  always  the  first  to  execute  justice,  in  their 
own  inimitable  way,  took  vengeance  upon  Crauford,  by 
burning  the  house  no  longer  his,  and  the  houses  of  the 
partners,  who  were  the  worst  and  most  innocent  sufferers 
for  his  crime.  No  epithet  of  horror  and  hatred  was  too 
severe  for  the  offender;  and  serious  apprehension  for  the 
safety  of  Newgate,  his  present  habitation,  was  generally 
expressed.  The  more  saintly  members  of  that  sect  to 
which  the  hypocrite  had  ostensibly  belonged,  held  up 
their  hands,  and  declared  that  the  fall  of  the  Pharisee 
was  a  judgment  of  Providence.  Nor  did  they  think  it 
worth  while  to  make,  for  a  moment,  the  trifling  inquiry, 
how  far  the  judgment  of  Providence  was  also  implicated 
in  the  destruction  of  the  numerous  and  innocent  families 
he  had  ruined ! 

But,  whether  from  that  admiration  for  genius,  com- 
mon to  the  vulgar,  which  forgets  all  crime  in  the  clever- 
ness of  committing  it,  or  from  that  sagacious  disposition 
peculiar  to  the  English,  which  makes  a  hero  of  any 
person  eminently  wicked,  no  sooner  did  Crauford's  trial 
come  on,  than  the  tide  of  popular  feeling  experienced 
a  sudden  revulsion.  It  became,  in  an  instant,  the 
fashion  to  admire  and  to  pity  a  gentleman  so  talented 
and  so  unfortunate.  Likenesses  of  Mr.  Crauford  ap- 
peared in  every  print-shop  in  town,  —  the  papers  dis- 
covered that  he  was  the  very  facsimile  of  the  great  King 
of  Prussia.  The  laureate  made  an  ode  upon  him,  which 
was  set  to  music;  and  the  public  learned,  with  tears  of 
compassionate  regret  at  so  romantic  a  circumstance,  that 
pigeon-pies  were  sent  daily  to  his  prison,  made  by  the 


THE   DISOWNED.  303 

delicate  hands  of  one  of  his  former  mistresses.  Some 
sensation,  also,  was  excited  by  the  circumstance  of  his 
poor  wife  (who  soon  afterwards  died  of  a  broken  heart) 
coming  to  him  in  prison,  and  being  with  difficulty  torn 
away;  but  then,  conjugal  affection  is  so  very  common- 
place,—  and  there  was  something  so  engrossingly  pa- 
thetic in  the  anecdote  of  the  pigeon-pies! 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Crauford  displayed  singular 
address  and  ability  upon  his  trial;  and,  fighting  every 
inch  of  ground,  even  to  the  last,  Avhen  so  strong  a  pha- 
lanx of  circumstances  appeared  against  him  that  no  hope 
of  a  favorable  verdict  could  for  a  moment  have  supported 
him,  he  concluded  the  trial  with  a  speech  delivered  by 
himself,  —  so  impressive,  so  powerful,  so  dignified,  yet 
so  impassioned,  that  the  whole  audience,  hot  as  they 
were,  dissolved  into  tears. 

Sentence  was  passed, — death!  But  such  was  the 
infatuation  of  the  people,  that  every  one  expected  that 
a  pardon,  for  crime  more  complicated  and  extensive 
than  half  the  Xewgate  Calendar  could  equal,  would  of 
course  be  obtained.  Persons  of  the  highest  rank  inter- 
ested themselves  in  his  behalf;  and  up  to  the  night 
before  his  execution,  expectations,  almost  amoimting  to 
certainty,  were  entertained  by  the  criminal,  his  friends, 
and  the  public.  On  that  night  was  conveyed  to  Crau- 
ford the  positive  and  peremptory  assurance  that  there 
was  no  hope.  Let  us  now  enter  his  cell,  and  be  the 
sole  witnesses  of  his  solitude. 

Crauford  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a  man  in  some  respects 
of  great  moral  courage,  of  extraordinary  daring  in  the 
formation  of  schemes,  of  unwavering  resolution  in  sup- 
porting them,  and  of  a  temper  which  rather  rejoiced  in, 
than  shunned  the  braving  of  a  distant  danger  for  the 
sake  of  an  adequate  reward.     But  this  courage  was  sup- 


304  THE   DISOWNED. 

ported  and  fed  solely  by  the  self-persuasion  of  consum- 
mate genius,  and  his  profound  confidence  both  in  his 
good  fortune  and  the  inexhaustibility  of  his  resources. 
Physically,  he  was  a  coward!  immediate  peril  to  be  con- 
fronted by  the  person,  not  the  mind,  had  ever  appalled 
him  like  a  child.  He  had  never  dared  to  back  a  spirited 
horse.  He  had  been  known  to  remain  for  days  in  an 
obscure  ale-house  in  the  country,  to  which  a  shower  had 
accidentally  driven  him,  because  it  had  been  idly  re- 
ported that  a  wild  beast  had  escaped  from  a  caravan,  and 
been  seen  in  the  vicinity  of  the  inn.  No  dog  had  ever 
been  allowed  in  his  household,  lest  it  might  go  mad. 
In  a  word,  Crauford  was  one  to  whom  life  and  sensual 
enjoyments  were  everything,  —  the  supreme  blessings, 
the  only  blessings. 

As  long  as  he  had  the  hope,  and  it  was  a  sanguine 
hope,  of  saving  life,  nothing  had  disturbed  his  mind 
from  its  serenity.  His  gayety  had  never  forsaken  him; 
and  his  cheerfulness  and  fortitude  had  been  the  theme 
of  every  one  admitted  to  his  presence.  But  "when  this 
hope  was  abruptly  and  finally  closed;  when  death,  im- 
mediate and  unavoidable  death,  —  the  extinction  of  ex- 
istence, the  cessation  of  sense,  — stood  bare  and  hideous 
before  him,  his  genius  seemed  at  once  to  abandon  him 
to  his  fate,  and  the  inherent  weakness  of  his  nature  to 
gush  over  every  prop  and  barrier  of  his  art. 

"  Xo  hope!"  muttered  he,  in  a  voice  of  the  keenest 
anguish, — "no  hope;  merciful  God,  —  none,  none! 
What,  I  —  /,  who  have  shamed  kings  in  luxury, — I 
to  die  on  the  gibbet,  among  the  reeking,  gaping,  swin- 
ish crowd  with  whom —  0  God,  that  I  were  one  of 
them  even;  that  I  were  the  most  loathsome  beggar 
that  ever  crept  forth  to  taint  the  air  with  sores ;  that 
I   were  a  toad    immured  in  a  stone,  sweltering  in  the 


THE   DISOWNED.  305 

atmosphere  of  its  own  venom;  a  snail  crawling  on  these 
very  walls,  and  tracking  his  painful  path  in  slime !  — 
anything,  anything,  but  death!  And  such  death:  the 
gallows,  the  scaffold,  the  halter,  the  fingers  of  the 
hangman  paddling  round  the  neck  where  the  softest 
caresses  have  clung  and  sated.  To  die  —  die  —  die! 
What!  /,  whose  pulse  now  beats  so  strongly,  whose 
blood  keeps  so  warm  and  vigorous  a  motion !  —  in  the 
very  prime  of  enjoyment  and  manhood;  all  life's  mil- 
lion paths  of  pleasure  before  me,  —  to  die,  to  swing  to 
the  winds,  to  hang,  — ay,  ay,  to  hang!  — to  be  cut  down, 
distorted  and  hideous ;  to  be  thrust  into  the  earth  with 
worms ;  to  rot,  or  — or  —  or  hell !  is  there  a  hell  1  — 
better  that  even  than  annihilation! 

"Fool,  fool!  —  damnable  fool  that  I  was"  (and  in 
his  sudden  rage  he  clenched  his  own  flesh  till  the  nails 
met  in  it) ;  "  had  I  but  got  to  France  one  day  sooner ! 
Why  don't  you  save  me,  save  me,  —  you  whom  I  have 
banqueted,  and  feasted,  and  lent  money  to!  — one  word 
from  you  might  have  saved  me,  —  I  will  not  die!  I 
don't  deserve  it!  —  I  am  innocent!  —  I  tell  you  Not 
guilty,  my  lord,  —  not  guilty!  Have  you  no  heart, 
no  consciences? — murder,  murder,  murder!"  and  the 
wretched  man  sank  upon  the  ground,  and  tried  with 
his  hands  to  grasp  the  stone  floor,  as  if  to  cling  to  it 
from  some  imaginary  violence. 

Turn  we  from  him  to  the  cell  in  which  another  crimi- 
nal awaits  also  the  awful  coming  of  his  latest  morrow. 

Pale,  motionless,  silent,  —  with  his  face  bending 
over  his  bosom,  and  hands  clasped  tightly  upon  his 
knees,  Wolfe  sat  in  his  dungeon,  and  collected  his  spirit 
against  the  approaching  consummation  of  his  turbulent 
and  stormy  fate,  —  his  bitterest  punishment  had  been 
already  past;  mysterious  chance,  or  rather  the  Power 

VOL   II.  — 20 


306  THE   DISO\VNED. 

above  chance,  had  denied  to  him  the  haughty  triumph 
of  self-applause.  No  sophistry,  now,  coukl  compare  his 
doom  to  that  of  Sidney,  or  his  deed  to  the  act  of  the 
avenging  Brutus. 

Murder  —  causeless,  objectless,  universally  execrated 
—  rested,  and  would  rest  (till  oblivion  wrapped  it)  upon 
his  name.  It  had  appeared,  too,  upon  his  trial,  that  he 
had,  in  the  information  he  had  received,  been  the  mere 
tool  of  a  spy  in  the  minister's  pay;  and  that,  for  weeks 
before  his  intended  deed,  his  design  had  been  known, 
and  his  conspiracy  only  not  bared  to  the  public  eye 
because  political  craft  awaited  a  riper  opportunitj'  for 
the  disclosure.  He  had  not  then  merely  been  the  blind 
dupe  of  his  own  passions,  but,  more  humbling  still,  an 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  the  very  men  whom  his 
hatred  was  sworn  to  destroy.  Not  a  wreck,  —  not  a 
straw,  of  the  vain  glory  for  which  he  had  forfeited  life 
and  risked  his  soul,  could  he  hug  to  a  sinking  heart,  and 
say,  "  This  is  my  support." 

The  remorse  of  gratitude  embittered  his  cup  still 
farther.  On  Mordaunt's  person  had  been  discovered 
a  memorandum  of  the  money  anonymously  enclosed  to 
Wolfe  on  the  day  of  the  murder;  and  it  was  couched  in 
words  of  esteem  which  melted  the  fierce  heart  of  the 
republican  into  the  only  tears  he  had  shed  since  child- 
hood. From  that  time,  a  sullen,  silent  spirit  fell  upon 
him.  He  spoke  to  none,  heeded  none;  he  made  no 
defence  in  trial,  no  complaint  of  severity,  no  appeal  from 
judgment.  The  iron  had  entered  into  his  soul,  — but  it 
supported,  while  it  tortured.  Even  now,  as  we  gaze 
upon  his  inflexible  and  dark  countenance,  no  transitory 
emotion,  no  natural  spasm  of  sudden  fear  for  the  catas- 
trophe of  the  morrow,  no  intense  and  working  passions, 
struggling   into   calm,    no   sign   of    internal    hurricanes. 


THE    DISOWNED.  307 

rising,  as  it  were,  from  the  hidden  depths,  agitate  the 
surface,  or  betray  the  secrets  of  the  unfathomable  world 
within.  The  mute  lip,  the  rigid  brow,  the  downcast 
eye,  a  heavy  and  dread  stillness  brooding  over  every 
feature, — these  are  all  we  behold! 

Is  it  that  thought  sleeps,  locked  in  the  torpor  of  a 
senseless  and  rayless  dream,  or  that  an  evil  iuculms 
weighs  upon  it,  crushing  its  risings,  but  deadening  not 
its  pangs  1  Does  Memory  fly  to  the  green  fields  and 
happy  home  of  his  childhood,  or  the  lonely  studies  of 
his  daring  and  restless  youth,  or  his  earliest  homage  to 
that  Spirit  of  Freedom  which  shone  bright  and  still 
and  pure,  upon  the  solitary  chamber  of  him  who  sang  of 
heaven,^  or  (dwelling  on  its  last  and  most  fearful  ob- 
ject) rolls  it  only  through  one  tumultuous  and  convul- 
sive channel,  — despair?  Whatever  be  within  the  silent 
and  deep  heart, — pride,  or  courage,  or  callousness,  or 
that  stubborn  firmness,  which,  once  principle  has  grown 
habit,  cover  all  as  with  a  pall;  and  the  stung  nerves 
and  the  hard  endurance  of  the  human  flesh  sustain  what 
the  immortal  mind  perhaps  quails  beneath,  in  its  dark 
retreat,  but  once  dreamed  that  it  would  exult  to  bear. 

The  fatal  hour  had  come,  and  through  the  long  dim 
passages  of  the  prison  four  criminals  were  led  forth  to 
execiition.  The  first  was  Crauford's  associate,  Bradley. 
This  man  prayed  fervently;  and,  though  he  was  trem- 
bling and  pale,  his  mien  and  aspect  bore  something  of 
the  calmness  of  resignation. 

It  has  been  said  that  there  is  no  friendship  among  the 
wicked.  I  have  examined  this  maxim  closely,  and  be- 
lieve it,  like  most  popular  proverbs,  false.  In  wicked- 
ness there  is  peril,  —  and  mutual  terror  is  the  strongest 
of  ties.  At  all  events,  the  wicked  can,  not  unoften, 
1  Milton. 


308  THE   DISOWNED. 

excite  an  attachment  in  their  followers  denied  to  virtue, 
Habitually  courteous,  caressing,  and  familiar,  Crauford 
had,  despite  his  own  suspicions  of  Bradley ,  really  touched 
the  heart  of  one  whom  weakness  and.  want,  not  nature, 
had  gained  to  vice;  and  it  was  not  till  Crauford's  guilt 
was  by  other  witnesses  undeniably  proved  that  Bradley 
could  be  tempted  to  make  any  confession  tending  to 
implicate  him. 

He  now  crept  close  to  his  former  partner,  and  fre- 
quently clasped  his  hand,  and  besought  him  to  take 
courage,  and  to  pray.  But  Crauford's  eye  was  glassy 
and  dim,  and  his  veins  seemed  filled  with  water,  —  so 
numbed  and  cold  and  white  was  his  cheek.  Fear  in 
him  had  passed  its  paroxysms,  and  was  now  insensi- 
bility ;  it  was  only  when  they  urged  him  to  pray  that 
a  sort  of  benighted  consciousness  strayed  over  his  coun- 
tenance, and  his  ashen  lips  muttered  something  which 
none  heard. 

After  him  came  the  Creole  who  had  been  Wolfe's 
accomplice.  On  the  night  of  the  murder  he  had  taken 
advantage  of  the  general  loneliness,  and  the  confusion 
of  the  few  present,  and  fled.  He  was  found,  however, 
fast  asleep,  in  a  garret,  before  morning,  by  the  officers 
of  justice,  and  on  trial  he  had  confessed  all.  This  man 
was  in  a  rapid  consumption.  The  delay  of  another 
Aveek  would  have  given  to  nature  the  termination  of  his 
life.  He,  like  Bradley,  seemed  earnest  and  absorbed  in 
prayer. 

Last  came  Wolfe,  his  tall,  gaunt  frame  worn,  by 
confinement  and  internal  conflict,  into  a  gigantic  skele- 
ton;  his  countenance,  too,  had  undergone  a  withering 
change :  his  grizzled  hair  seemed  now  to  have  acquired 
only  the  one  hoary  hue  of  age ;  and  though  you  might 
trace   in  his  air  and  eye   the  sternness,  you  could  no 


THE   DISOWNED.  309 

longer  detect  the  fire,  of  former  days.  Calm  as  on  the 
preceding  night,  no  emotion  broke  over  his  dark  bul 
not  defying  features.  He  rejected,  though  not  irrever- 
ently, all  aid  from  the  benevolent  priest,  and  seemed 
to  seek  in  the  pride  of  his  own  heart  a  substitute  for  the 
resignation  of  religion. 

"  Miserable  man !  "  at  last  said  the  good  clergyman , 
in  whom  zeal  overcame  kindness,  "  have  you  at  this 
awful  hour  no  prayer  upon  your  lips  ?  " 

A  living  light  shot  then  for  a  moment  over  Wolfe's 
eye  and  brow.  "  I  have !  "  said  he ;  and  raising  his 
clasped  hands  to  heaven,  he  continued  in  the  memorable 
words  of  Sidney,  "  '  Lord,  defend  Thy  own  cause,  and 
defend  those  who  defend  it!  Stir  up  such  as  are  faint, 
direct  those  that  are  willing;  confirm  those  that  waver, 
give  wisdom  and  integrity  to  all :  order  all  things  so  as 
may  most  redound  to  Thine  own  glory ! ' 

"  I  had  once  hoped,"  added  Wolfe,  sinking  in  his 
tone,  —  "I  had  once  hoped  that  I  might  with  justice 
have  continued  that  holy  prayer ;  ^  but  —  "  he  ceased 
abruptly;  the  glow  passed  from  his  countenance,  his  lif 
quivered,  and  the  tears  stood  in  his  eyes;  and  that  was 
the  only  weakness  he  betrayed,  and  those  were  his  lasl 
words. 

Crauford  continued,  even  while  the  rope  was  put 
round  him,  mute  and  unconscious  of  everything.  li 
was  said  that  his  pulse  (that  of  an  uncommonly  strong 
and  healthy  man  on  the  previous  day)  had  become  so 

1  Grant  that  I  may  die  glorifying  Thee  for  all  Thy  mercies 
and  that  at  the  last  Thou  hast  permitted  me  to  be  singled  out  as 
a  witness  of  Thy  truth,  and  even  by  the  confession  of  my  opposers 
for  that  OLD  cause  in  which  I  was  from  my  youth  engaged,  and 
for  which  Thou  hast  often  and  wonderfully  declared  Thyself.— 
Algernon  Sidney. 


310  THE   DISOWNED. 

low  and  faint  that,  an  hour  before  his  execution,  it 
could  not  be  felt.  He  and  the  Creole  were  the  only  ones 
who  struggled;  Wolfe  died,  seemingly,  without  a  pang. 

From  these  feverish  and  fearful  scenes  the  mind  turns 
with  a  feeling  of  grateful  relief  to  contemplate  the  hap- 
piness of  one  whose  candid  and  high  nature,  and  warm 
aU'ections,  Fortune,  long  befriending,  had  at  length 
blessed. 

It  was  on  an  evening  in  the  earliest  flush  of  returning 
spring  that  Lord  Ulswater,  with  his  beautiful  bride, 
entered  his  magnificent  domains.  It  had  been  his  wish 
and  order,  in  consequence  of  his  brother's  untimely 
death,  that  no  public  rejoicings  should  be  made  on  his 
marriage ;  but  the  good  old  steward  could  not  persuade 
himself  entirely  to  enforce  obedience  to  the  first  order  of 
his  new  master;  and  as  the  carriage  drove  into  the  park- 
gates,  crowds  on  crowds  were  assembled  to  welcome  and 
to  gaze. 

No  sooner  had  they  caught  a  glimpse  of  their  young 
lord,  whose  affability  and  handsome  person  had  endeared 
him  to  all  who  remembered  his  early  days,  and  of  the 
half-blushing,  half-smiling  countenance  beside  him,  than 
their  enthusiasm  could  be  no  longer  restrained.  The 
whole  scene  rang  with  shouts  of  joy;  and,  through  an 
air  filled  with  blessings,  and  amidst  an  avenue  of  happy 
faces,  the  bridal  pair  arrived  at  their  home. 

"Ah!  Clarence  (for  so  I  must  still  call  you),"  said 
Flora,  her  beautiful  eyes  streaming  with  delicious  tears, 
"  let  us  never  leave  these  kind  hearts ;  let  us  live 
amongst  them,  and  strive  to  repay  and  deserve  the 
blessings  which  they  shower  upon  us!  Is  not  benevo- 
lence, dearest,   better  than  ambition?" 

"  Can  it  not  rather,  my  own  Flora,  be  ambition 
itself?" 


THE   DISOWNED.  311 


CONCLUSION. 

So  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen.  —  Monsieur  Thomas. 

The  author  has  now  only  to  take  his  leave  of  the  less 
important  characters  whom  he  has  assembled  together; 
and  then,  all  due  courtesy  to  his  numerous  guests  being 
performed,  to  retire  himself  to  repose. 

First,  then,  for  Mr.  Morris  Brown:  In  the  second 
year  of  Lord  Ulswater's  marriage,  the  worthy  broker 
paid  Mrs.  Minden's  nephew  a  visit,  in  which  he  per- 
suaded that  gentleman  to  accept,  "  as  presents, "  two 
admirable  fire-screens,  the  property  of  the  late  Lady 
Waddilove:  the  same  may  be  now  seen  in  the  house- 
keeper's room,  at  Borodaile  Park,  by  any  person  willing 
to  satisfy  his  curiosity  and  —  the  housekeeper.  Of  all 
further  particulars  respecting  Mr.  Morris  Brown,  history 
is  silent. 

In  the  obituary  for  1792  we  find  the  following  para- 
graph :  "  Died  at  his  house  in  Putney,  aged  seventy-three. 
Sir  Nicholas  Copperas,  Knt.,  a  gentleman  well  known 
on  the  Exchange  for  his  facetious  humor.  Several  of 
his  hons-mots  are  still  recorded  in  the  Common  Council. 
When  residing,  many  years  ago,  in  the  suburbs  of  Lon- 
don, this  worthy  gentleman  was  accustomed  to  go  from 
his  own  house  to  the  Exchange  in  a  coach  called  '  the 
Swallow,'  that  passed  his  door  just  at  breakfast-time; 
upon  which  occasion  he  was  wont  Avittily  to  observe  to 
his  accomplished  spouse,  '  And  now,  Mrs.  Copperas, 
having   swallowed   in   the   roll,    I  will  e'en  roll  in  the 


312  THE   DISOWNED. 

Swallow ! '      His   whole    property    is   left   to   Adolphus 
Copperas,   Esq.,   Banker." 

And  in  the  next  year  we  discover,  — 

"  Died,  on  Wednesday  last,  at  her  jointure-house, 
Putney,  in  her  sixty-eighth  year,  the  amiable  and  ele- 
gant Lady  Copperas,  relict  of  the  late  Sir  iS^icholas, 
Knt." 

Mr.  Trollolop,  having  exhausted  the  whole  world  of 
metaphysics,  died,  like  Descartes,  "  in  believing  he  had 
left  nothing  unexplained." 

Mr.  Callythorpe  entered  the  House  of  Commons  at 
the  time  of  the  French  Revolution.  He  distinguished 
himself  by  many  votes  in  favor  of  Mr.  Pitt,  and  one 
speech  which  ran  thus :  "  Sir,  I  believe  my  right  honor- 
able friend,  who  spoke  last  (Mr.  Pitt),  designs  to  ruin 
the  comitry ;  but  I  will  support  him  through  aU.  Honor- 
able Gentlemen  may  laugh,  —  but  I  'm  a  true  Briton, 
and  will  not  serve  my  friend  the  less  because  I  scorn 
to  flatter  him." 

Sir  Christopher  Findlater  lost  his  life  by  an  accident 
arising  from  the  upset  of  his  carriage,  —  his  good  heart  not 
having  suffered  him  to  part  with  a  drunken  coachman. 

Mr.  Glumford  turned  miser  in  his  old  age,  and  died 
of  Avant,  and  an  extravagant  son. 

Our  honest  Cole  and  his  wife  were  always  amongst  the 
most  welcome  visitors  at  Lord  Ulswater's.  In  his  ex- 
treme old  age,  the  ex-king  took  a  journey  to  Scotland, 
to  see  the  author  of  "  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. " 
Nor  should  we  do  justice  to  the  chief's  critical  discern- 
ment if  we  neglected  to  record  that,  from  the  earliest 
dawn  of  that  great  luminary  of  our  age,  he  predicted  its 
meridian  si)lendor.  The  eldest  son  of  the  gypsy-monarch 
inherited  his  father's  spirit,  and  is  yet  alive,  a  general, 
and  G.C.B. 


THE   DISOWNED.  313 

Mr.  Harrison  married  Miss  Elizabeth,  and  succeeded 
to  the  Golden  Fleece. 

The  Duke  of  Haverfield  and  Lord  Ulswater  continued 
their  friendship  through  life ;  and  the  letters  of  our  dear 
Flora  to  her  correspondent,  Eleanor,  did  not  cease  even 
with  that  critical  and  perilous  period  to  all  maiden  cor- 
respondence, —  marriage.  If  we  may  judge  from  the 
subsequent  letters  which  we  have  been  permitted  to  see, 
Eleanor  never  repented  her  brilliant  nuptials,  nor  dis- 
covered (as  the  Duchess  of once  said  from  experi- 
ence) "  that  dukes  are  as  intolerable  for  husbands  as  they 
are  delightful  for  matches. " 

And  Isabel  INIordaunt  1  —  Ah !  not  in  these  pages  shall 
he)'  history  be  told  even  in  epitome.  Perhaps  for  some 
future  narrative  her  romantic  and  eventful  fate  may  be 
reserved.  Suffice  it  for  the  present  that  the  childhood 
of  the  young  heiress  passed  in  the  house  of  Lord  Uls- 
water, whose  proudest  boast,  through  a  triumphant  and 
prosperous  life,  was  to  have  been  her  father's  friend ;  and 
that  as  she  grew  up,  she  inlierited  her  mother's  beauty 
and  gentle  heart,  and  seemed  to  bear  in  her  deep  eyes 
and  melancholy  smile  some  remembrance  of  the  scenes  in 
which  her  infancy  had  been  passed. 

But  for  him,  the  husband  and  the  father,  whose  trials 
through  this  wrong  world  I  have  portrayed, —  for  him 
let  there  be  neither  murmurs  at  the  blindness  of  fate,  nor 
sorrow  at  the  darkness  of  his  doom.  Better  that  the 
lofty  and  bright  spirit  should  nass  away  before  the  petty 
business  of  life  had  bowert  it,  or  the  sordid  mists  of  this 
low  earth  breathed  a  shadow  on  its  lustre !  Who  would 
have  asked  that  spirit  to  have  struggled  on  for  years  in 
the  intrigues,  the  hopes,  the  objects  of  meaner  souls? 
Who  would  have  desired  that  the  heavenward  and  impa- 
tient heart  should  have  grown  inured  to  the  chains  and  toil 


314  THE   DISOWNED. 

of  this  enslaved  state,  or  hardened  into  tlie  callousness  of 
age  ?  Nor  would  we  claim  the  vulgar  pittance  of  com- 
passion for  a  lot  which  is  exalted  above  regret!  Pity  is 
for  our  weaknesses, —  to  our  weaknesses  only  be  it  given. 
It  is  the  aliment  of  love,  it  is  the  wages  of  ambition,  it 
is  the  rightful  heritage  of  error!  But  why  shotdd  pity 
be  entertained  for  the  soul  which  never  fell;  for  the 
courage  wliich  never  quailed;  for  the  majesty  never 
humbled;  for  the  wisdom  which,  from  the  rough 
things  of  the  common  world,  raised  an  empire  above 
earth  and  destiny  1  For  the  stormy  life  1  —  it  was  a  tri- 
umph !  —  for  the  early  death  ?  —  it  was  immortality ! 

I  have  stood  beside  Mordaunt's  tomb:  his  will  had 
directed  that  he  should  sleep  not  in  the  vaults  of  his 
haughty  line, —  and  his  last  dwelling  is  surrounded  by  a 
green  and  pleasant  spot.  The  trees  shadow  it  like  a 
temple ;  and  a  silver  though  fitful  brook  wails  with  a 
constant  yet  not  ungrateful  dirge  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
on  which  the  tomb  is  placed.  I  have  stood  there  in 
these  ardent  years  when  our  wishes  know  no  boundary, 
and  our  ambition  no  curb ;  yet  even  then  I  would  liave 
changed  my  wildest  vision  of  romance  for  that  ({uiet 
grave,  and  the  dreams  of  the  distant  spirit  whose  relics 
reposed  beneath  it. 


THE    END. 


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